


Correcting Mistakes

by nilafhiosagam



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also Amelia Bones amuses me more than I thought she would, And Molly Weasley gives it to him, And Then Some, And that seems to extend to, Bit of lawyering, Canonical Child Abuse, Don't worry though, Every year, Gen, Harry Potter needs a bloody hug, Harry really does not like small dark places, Hugging Harry, I kinda made up Weatherby's first name, I nominate the Weasleys for Family of the Year, In which Ron is hella observant, It all worked out, Just thought that I'd throw that out there, Just you wait - Freeform, Molly bloody Weasley to the rescue though, Past Child Abuse, Poor Harry, Ron Weasley-the best mate we all need in our lives, Ron and Hermione get in on the hugging too, Seriously people, Thank Merlin Rowena and Helga for that, Thank Merlin Salazar and Godric for that, The twins are pretty great older brothers, There's crying-I'm sorry, Things'll get better though, Trial time, Who can blame him though, Y'Know?, YAY MOLLY, about their best mate when they're not really sure what's going on, and as concerned as any 12 year old can be, how they treat their little brother's best friend, just that it doesn't seem good, should be interesting, there's no rape (re the child abuse)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilafhiosagam/pseuds/nilafhiosagam
Summary: If there's one thing that Molly Weasley can pride herself on; it's her family, and after that, her motherly instinct. So when Molly Weasley's motherly instinct starts screaming at her that all is not as it seems when it comes to Ron's best friend, Harry, she decides to listen to it.What follows is a boy who ends up revealing far more than he wanted to, some very concerned best friends, and a desperate attempt to make everything better.





	1. In which suspicions are raised

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! If you're reading this, then you've decided to click on this, my first published fanfic! Go you! I hope you'll like it, but it's completely cool if you don't. I'd love it if you left comments, just please don't be rude just for the sake of it. I can take criticism, but not verbal (written?) abuse. Anyways, I'd really love it if you'd tell me what you thought, and even had suggestions for improving it, or for future chapters. I won't lie to you; I'm not finished. To be honest, the only reason why I'm posting this now is because I've written up to a certain point and the writers block has kicked in like nothing else. Hopefully having people who are somewhat interested in what happens next will help.  
> You could argue that some (or a lot of) characters are a bit (or very) ooc, and to be honest, they probably are. It is fanfic after all.  
> Anyways, the aim of this story is for Harry to get out of Privet Drive, and get to live with better guardians (*cough the Weasley's cough*). I'm not really sure where it'll go after that, though an idea is to write about how the events in the books could've been changed by this. I'll also say it now, as the tags show, I have no real pairings in mind (though we all know how likely Romione is), so if you've any ideas, just give me a shout.  
> Thanks, and (try to) enjoy!

If Molly Weasley could pride herself on one thing, it was her family, without a doubt. There was her wonderful husband, Arthur, their eldest child, Bill, then Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny. So what if Arthur tended to fully exploit loopholes in the very laws that he had helped write, and Bill was breaking curses (curses!) in Egypt (Egypt!), and Charlie was working with dragons (dragons!) in Romania (Romania!), and Percy was perhaps a _little_ uptight, and the twins seemed to cause trouble with every breath they took, and Ron had absolutely no tact whatsoever (none!), and Ginny was more like her brothers than people thought? They were still her family, and in her eyes, they would always be wonderful.

Besides, they had good points too, lots of them. The Weasleys were very good people, and most wizards rather liked them. Arthur, bless him, always trying to help and understand Muggles, Bill working with the Goblins, and Charlie working with and studying dragons. Percy was genuinely helpful and caring, even though he didn’t like to show it, Fred and George were constantly trying to put a smile on someone’s face, Ron was just so _brave_ and _loyal_ , and there was absolutely nothing wrong with Ginny being so like her brothers, she was also entirely her own person.

Another thing that Molly Weasley prided herself on, that was definitely connected to her family, was her motherly instinct. One did not manage to raise seven children without picking up a few things. Molly could tell from the crinkle of Bill’s eye that he was trying not to laugh. She knew that Charlie tended to go for long walks when he was thinking, and that Percy fidgeted with his sleeves when he was worried. She could tell that Fred had had a bad day when he laughed longer than George, and that George tended to hide his nerves with bad puns. Ron’s ears went red when he was angry or embarrassed, and Ginny tended to swing her arms as she walked when she was happy.

So, when Molly Weasley first got a good look at Ron’s new best friend, she was, understandably, a bit worried. She hadn’t known James Potter or Lily Evans personally, she had left Hogwarts before them, and they had never really met at any Order meetings, but like most of Wizarding Britain, she had a decent idea of what they had looked like. Little Harry Potter was amazingly similar to his father; if one compared a current picture of Harry to one of James at his age, they could’ve passed for twins. Most people would say that the only real physical differences between Harry and James Potter, were their eyes (James had had hazel eyes, and _everyone_ and their mother knew that Harry had Lily’s green eyes), and Harry’s infamous lightning-bolt scar, but Molly saw more.

She really didn’t think that James Potter had been quite _that_ small and bony when he started Hogwarts, and she doubted that Lily’s eyes had ever looked so _sad_ at the sight of a happy family. She also didn’t think that either of Harry’s parents had _ever_ worn such obviously too big, and more than slightly worn hand-me-downs, or looked so honestly surprised to be hugged, or complimented. It also seemed highly unlikely that James’ or Lily’s best friend had ever written home, saying that their best friend wasn’t expecting any Christmas presents this year, or any year.

But, of course, most of these things could easily be explained away. Harry was just naturally small and skinny, and like most prepubescent boys, would grow out of it in time. Perhaps his clothes were a fashion statement in the Muggle word, or his family were too poor to buy him anything else, or a Christmas present. And _of course_ Harry looked sad when he saw a happy family, he obviously missed his parents.

So, when Ron, Fred, and George arrived at the Burrow with Harry in tow, early in the morning on the first of August, after Harry not responding to any of Ron’s letters in the last month, and looking, somehow, even smaller than before, and her boys claiming ‘They were starving him, Mum!’, Molly might have ignored all this in her anger at the boys for running off in the middle of the night, she might have stayed content with the mundane (and somewhat unlikely) explanations for some of Harry Potter’s oddities, she might have pushed it all to the very back of her mind and not thought about it again (no matter how worried she got) until years later, when Harry himself decided to tell her. All this might’ve happened, and did happen, in another universe, if not for one thing; Harry Potter rubbed his eyes.

This might sound incredibly unimportant, but it wasn’t the act of rubbing his eyes that did it. No, as Molly Weasley stood in her yard and berated her youngest three sons for worrying her so (and technically breaking the law, but let’s not get into that), Harry Potter lifted his battered glasses and rubbed his eyes, tired after the trip. And as he did so, his sleeve slipped downwards. The movement caught Molly’s attention, and she watched him as she continued to vent her motherly concern. Whatever way Harry had lifted his arm, he wound up rubbing his eyes with the back of his left hand, holding his glasses in his right. Harry’s left sleeve slipped downwards, revealing a large, purple bruise on his inner arm, that looked vaguely like a thumbprint, and next to it, four smaller bruises. When put together, the bruises looked very much like someone had grabbed Harry Potter’s arm, hard enough to bruise.

And so it was, that Molly Weasley’s suspicions, instead of being somewhat buried, were brought to the fore, and her motherly instinct began to scream at her, without a trace of doubt, _ABUSE!_ Molly tried, half-heartedly, it must be said, to convince herself that Harry must have gotten the bruises whilst rough-housing with someone at home. He had a cousin, didn’t he? Hadn’t her own children managed to bruise each other, time and time again? But her motherly instinct could not be swayed. Her boys had never had bruises like _that,_ like someone much larger than them had grabbed them, and pulled them around, or even pinned them up against something. And when Harry’s uncle had met him at the train station last month, he had looked far from pleased to see his nephew again. Harry hadn’t looked happy to see his uncle again, either. He’d changed from the ordinary, happy young boy he’d been whilst saying goodbye to his friends to someone much smaller and quieter in the time it had taken to cross the station.

So Molly decided to watch and wait for now, ask a few carefully worded questions here and there, and she’d have her answer soon enough.


	2. In which someone is confused, and wonders if he should say something to his Mum and Dad

In Ron Weasley’s humble opinion, he had the best ‘Best Mates’ in the world. Hermione was a bloody genius and a tiny bit scary (she had set _Snape_ on fire once, and it had been absolutely bloody brilliant), she was ridiculously organised and would always listen to you and try to help you out, after nagging you. He hadn’t liked her all that much at first, she was a bit of an over-achieving know-it-all, and not very good at fitting in, or making friends, but he’d started to see her good points, and she’d grown on him. She still annoyed him sometimes, and they tended to disagree fairly often, but at the end of the day, she was still his best friend.

Harry, on the other hand, he’d warmed to immediately, and the two of them tended to get on very well. Harry wasn’t a genius like Hermione, but he was fairly clever, did well enough in class, and sometimes had _really_ good ideas. Harry was also funny, fun to be around, and always willing to share something, or help you out. He was loyal and exactly the sort of person you imagined when someone said the words, ‘a friend’. Harry and Hermione had some similarities, but were also quite different. And those differences sometimes confused Ron.

Hermione obviously really loved her family, she wrote essay-length letters to them every week, and liked to share interesting and funny stories about them, and they obviously really loved her, sending equally long letters, photos (the weird Muggle ones that didn’t move), and presents, like biscuits from home (‘Mione always shared them, which was brilliant). Harry, on the other hand, had only written to his relatives once last year, to wish them a happy Christmas. That was the only time that they’d written to him, too. They’d sent back a very short note that Harry had scrunched up, and a strange piece of Muggle money, as a Christmas present.

Harry had let Ron keep it, which was nice. He’d given it to his Dad, who loved it, though he’d been a bit confused that it was all Harry had gotten for Christmas from them. 50p, as it turned out, when converted to proper, wizarding, money, was barely enough to buy two chocolate frogs on the Hogwarts Express. Hedwig actually delivered and received more letters for Hermione than she did for Harry, who only ever got notes from Hagrid. Ron sometimes borrowed Hedwig too, though he usually used Errol, or even a school owl. Harry, unlike Hermione, hardly ever talked about his relatives, other than a few, quiet, sarcastic comments here and there, and he never told interesting and funny stories from when he was younger, either.

Ron had more of an idea of what Muggles actually wore than most Purebloods, given his Dad’s job, and he and his siblings generally wore Muggle clothing at home (it was a bit cheaper and easier to come by than wizarding clothing), and Hermione always wore Muggle clothes at the weekends. Harry did too, but Harry’s clothes were different from Ron’s and Hermione’s. For a start, all of Hermione’s clothes fit her perfectly, and most of Ron’s did, bar a few things that he’d outgrown, or some hand-me-downs from his brothers that didn’t fit quite yet, but Harry’s clothes were all _massive_ on him. Harry wasn’t very big, he was the shortest and smallest Gryffindor boy in their year, but surely his clothes shouldn’t be _that_ big, right?

His clothes were big enough that you could probably fit two Harry’s in them, with room to spare. They were several sizes too big, and obviously stretched. Harry had to roll up the ends of his trousers and his jumpers. His t-shirts tended to slip down his shoulders, and were all quite long on him, and the hole in his belt that he used was completely on its own, far away from the others. (The hole looked like it had been made by hand, and the outermost hole looked very strained.) All of Harry’s clothes were worn, ripped and holey in places, and some had strange stains. Ron Weasley knew second-hand clothes when he saw them, but his clothes had _never_ looked like _that_.

When Ron had met him first, Harry’s glasses had had one slightly cracked lens, and were held together in the middle and at the sides by tape. (Ron didn’t think they worked properly either, because Harry still squinted at the board and usually ended up copying Ron’s notes, which were sometimes copies of Hermione’s notes, and he had trouble identifying people from a distance.) Harry’s runners were in a similar state, worn and peeling in places, and taped together. Some of the holes and rips in his clothes had been clumsily mended, but not many.

When Ron had first met Harry Potter, he had seen something that he had never really been able to put out of hs mind, even now, nearly a year later. As they were talking, in that compartment on the Express, and really beginning to get to know each other, Harry had pulled off his glasses and polished them on the end of his shirt. As he did so he leaned forward, causing his shirt to slip and reveal yellowing, finger-shaped bruises on his right shoulder. Ron hadn’t said anything, pretended he hadn’t seen it, and tried to stop himself from fixating on it later. After all, he, Ron Weasley, was no stranger to second-hands and bruises. But still, he’d been unable to put it out of his mind. His brothers had never left him with bruises quite like _that._

By the 30th of July, Ron had had enough. Harry hadn’t answered _any_ of his letters in the last month, and Ron was confused (and a little bit worried). He had been annoyed originally, thinking that Harry was just ignoring him, but remembering the look on Harry’s face when he’d asked them to write to him had changed his mind. He cornered his Mum before dinner that day, and told her about the complete lack of response from Harry. His Mum had looked a bit confused for a moment, before smiling at him reassuringly, and saying that there was probably a good explanation for all of this, and if he wanted, they could check up on Harry next week if he still hadn’t written? Ron had grudgingly agreed, and wondered if he should tell his Mum about Harry’s clothes, and how he never talked about his family or wrote to them, and how matter-of-factly he’d said that he wasn’t expecting any Christmas presents this year, and had never gotten them before, and how Harry had seen his family (but not the ones he lived with) in that mirror, and how he hadn’t known what they looked like before then, and those bruises…

In the end, Ron decided not to, if only because he wasn’t actually sure what it all meant, if it meant anything at all.


	3. In whiich someone is rescued

Ron lasted four whole days before he decided to rescue Harry, with the help of Fred, George, and Dad’s car. They’d walked into the library of the nearby Muggle village, Ottery-St. Catchpole, to look up a map of where Harry lived. _4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey._ Ron still carried the crumpled parchment it was written on in his pocket, though he’d looked at it so often that he’d memorised both it, and the way Harry had written it. The ‘g’s and the ‘y’ were looped, the ‘e’s slanted upwards, and ‘Surrey’ was rather cramped because Harry had run out of space. Surrey, apparently, was a bit west of London, Little Whinging was a small town in east Surrey, and Privet Drive was near Magnolia Crescent, whatever that was supposed to mean. Still, the three brothers eventually managed to plot the best route to Harry, and the twins were confident that they could get them there and back again before sunrise.

Ron went to bed early that night, and set an alarm for midnight. He met Fred and George on the second landing, and together they all stole out silently to the shed, where Dad kept all his Muggle things. They quietly wheeled the turquoise Ford Anglia down the path, and through the gate. They kept going until they thought that they were far away enough that not even their mother’s sharp ears could pick up the engine roaring into life. Fred drove, George sat next to him with the map and a compass, and Ron sat in the back, trying valiantly to stay awake.

George shook him into consciousness as they reached Little Whinging, some hours later.

“The hell?” muttered Ron sleepily.

“We’re coming up on Magnolia Crescent now,” George turned to Fred, “Left here, Gred”, Fred grunted in acknowledgement, and turned left, George turned back to Ron, “And we thought that you might want to do more than lie there, snoring.”

“Oi! I don’t snore!” retorted Ron, now fully awake and excited to see his best mate again. They skimmed the very tops of the clouds, dipping down occasionally to make sure that the compass hadn’t led them astray, as it tended to do. Ron became more and more excited, and nervous, as they approached Privet Drive. What if Harry didn’t even _need_ rescuing, let alone _want_ it?

Still, it was too late to turn back now, because Fred had brought them below the cloud cover again, and Ron could easily see two straight lines of houses below them. Fred swooped even lower, and the car’s headlights illuminated a sign on the footpath that clearly read: _Privet Drive._ There were eleven houses in Privet Drive, five on each side of the road, and one at the end, in the middle. Ron looked around in interest, wanting to see what his best friend’s house looked like. To his surprise (and immense dislike, though he decided not to let Harry see that), all eleven houses were _identical._ Red brick and pale stone, two big windows and a door on the ground floor, three big windows on the first. The only real differences between the houses were the cars, exactly what was in the garden, and the number on the door. Well, actually-and Ron did a double-take-one house _was_ slightly different. The second house on the right had bars on one upstairs window. The twins noticed too, and drove closer to that house, close enough that Ron could make out the shiny brass number on the brown front door. _This_ was Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. _This_ was where Harry Potter lived.

Ron poked the back of George’s head, to get his attention, and Fred’s, just because he could.

“This is it.”, he said, trying to keep the worry and confusion he felt out of his voice. He must’ve been somewhat successful, because the twins exchanged dubious looks, but didn’t say anything. Ron continued, “And I think that _that_ ”, he pointed at the barred window, “might be Harry’s room.”

Fred sighed.

“Alright, let’s get a closer look.”

He carefully maneuvered the car until Ron’s door was parallel with the window. Ron peered in. The moonlight just about illuminated a bedroom, bigger than his own, that contained very little. Bed, bedside table, wardrobe, desk, spindly chair. That was it. That was all that was in the room. No toys, no pictures, no books, nothing. The only things in the room that showed that someone lived in it were the bird cage on the desk, that contained a rather annoyed looking (and very familiar) snowy owl, and the small dark-haired figure that was just sitting up on the bed, and fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table. Harry.

Harry put on his glasses and crept over to the window, before pushing it up so that they could talk. What followed was exactly the sort of thing you would expect to hear, namely Ron and Harry asking each other a multitude of questions, Harry about the flying car, and Ron about Harry’s complete lack of response to any of his letters, as well as the warning that Harry had received for performing underage magic in front of Muggles (Ron’s Dad had mentioned it a few days ago, which had only made Ron even more determined to rescue Harry). With the help of Fred and George, they broke the bars off of Harry’s window, unlocked Harry’s door (Ron honestly had no idea why it was locked from the outside, but it was very worrying), and the twins crept down the stairs to get Harry’s Hogwarts things out from the cupboard under the stairs (Harry had made a strange face as he said those words, Ron hadn’t questioned him about it, but he did wonder why all of Harry’s magical things were locked away).

Everything went smoothly, they even managed to load Harry’s incredibly heavy trunk, until Hedwig let out an ungodly screech. Harry had forgotten her, and she was still in her cage on the other side of the room. Harry dove back across the room for her, just as a man shouted “THAT RUDDY OWL!”

. He grabbed the cage, and passed it to George as the door crashed open. Ron just stared in mute terror as a huge man (Harry’s uncle, a less terrified, more logical part of his brain supplied) stood silhouetted in the doorway. The man let out a furious roar, and lunged at Harry, who was perched on the window sill, about to climb into the car. Harry’s Uncle grabbed Harry’s ankle, shouting “Petunia! He’s getting away! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”.

The three Weasleys tugged on Harry’s arms and torso, and managed to wrestle him out of his Uncle’s grip and into the car. Harry slammed the door shut, and Ron shouted at Fred to get a move on. Harry opened his window and called back to the other inhabitants of 4 Privet Drive, “See you next summer!”

The boys in the car all howled with laughter, and the next few hours were spent talking, Harry explaining how he had never received any of Ron’s letters, and about what Dobby had done. Ron was delighted to see his best friend again (and that Harry hadn’t been ignoring him on purpose), but he couldn’t shake the feeling that was niggling at him. The feeling that all was not well in Harry’s house. Ron’s ill-feeling was later proved right, by none other than his mother, and Harry himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so. The stage is set, and I hope that this lot will be interesting enough for you to want to read more. Depending on the level of response I get (read as: if more than five people read it, and I get a nice comment or two), I'll post more, maybe one chapter a day up until where I am now. Fair warning though, if this goes ahead, I'll be gone away all day the 8th, and won't be back 'til 6pm-ish GMT on the 9th, so either no chapters or double. I hope you enjoyed this, as much as I did/do (and, incidentally,posting stuff is actually really really exciting).


	4. In which something unfortunate happens, and someone is very upset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I've already had over 100 hits, 18 cudos, 2 bookmarks, and 2 comments! This is amazing! Thank you all so much, especially my two commenters (you know who you are). Anyways, as promised, here's two chapters; today's and one more to tide you over 'til Tuesday evening. I hope you all continue to enjoy this, and everything I said in my author's note in chapter one still stands, though I'd like to point out that you can tell me if you think that I should change/add tags, or change the rating. Fair warning, here be claustrophobia, flashbacks, mentions and descriptions of past child abuse, and a gratuitous amount of crying. (I'm sorry). Enjoy! (If you can)

It was the 5th of August, two days after Harry had arrived at the Burrow, and the weather in Devon was absolutely _heavenly._ Cloudless skies of the brightest blue, cool afternoon and evening breezes, and everything was completely _drenched_ in golden sunshine. It was a glorious, perfect day, and the Weasley’s had decided to spend it in the garden. Arthur would be home from work within the hour, Molly was making sandwiches, cake, and cool drinks for everyone in the kitchen, and even Percy was out of his room and spending time with his siblings for once. There was a small pond in the garden, and George and Fred were trying to convince everyone to get in. Percy refused, arguing that he ‘didn’t want a face-full of dirty, insect-infested water’, Ginny was hopping in and out, trying to evade her mother, who wanted help with the sandwiches, and Ron and Harry sat with their feet dipped in it, Ron trying to cajole Harry into going in deeper.

“It’ll be fine mate!”, he said cheerfully, pushing a damp lock of red hair off of his forehead (the twins had splashed him only moments earlier). Harry eyed the water doubtfully, very unsure. He had never learned how to swim (not that the pond was especially deep), and if he got wet enough he’d be expected to change into something else, which _wasn’t happening._ The only other shirt he had that wasn’t an absolute mess or in the wash was short-sleeved and had a habit of slipping down, and his arms and torso were a bit marked up at the moment, so there was no way in hell that he was putting it on.

So there he sat, in nearly thirty degree Celsius weather, wearing a long-sleeved, heavy, grey shirt, and long, baggy, blue jeans, and feeling like he was going to expire any moment now. Ginny ran down from the house again and flopped onto the grass next to Ron, carefully not looking at Harry. It was a bit embarrassing actually; the way that Ginny completely lost all sense of composure the minute Harry entered the room. Ron looked at her.

“What’s up, Gin?”, he asked unconcernedly. Ginny took a deep breath and huffed it out quickly.

“It’s Mum. She wants me to help her with the sandwiches, but I ‘m sick of it. It’s _always_ me! Besides, just look at the weather!”, she exclaimed, waving an arm at the sky to illustrate her point. Harry got up.

“I’ll go see if she wants me to help her. Shouldn’t be long.”, he said, picking up his shoes as he went.

“Alright mate. Bring us down a glass of lemonade when you’re coming”, replied Ron, lying back and staring up at the clouds.

“Thanks, Harry”, Ginny managed to squeak out, face going a brilliant shade of pink as she did so.

Harry smiled at her, and then headed back up the garden. The grass was warm and dry under his feet, and the welcoming shape of the Burrow loomed before him. He stood outside the back door for a moment, enjoying the cooling effect of the shade, before pulling on his socks and shoes and heading inside. Mrs. Weasley stood at the counter in the kitchen, mixing a bowl of icing briskly. She turned and spotted him at the door.

“Oh, hello Harry, dear! What are you doing inside? Would you like a drink? It’s awfully warm out, maybe you should put on a hat. I think there might be one lying around that you can use.”, she paused for breath, and Harry decided that now was probably a good time to speak, before she got started again.

“Actually, Mrs. Weasley, I was just wondering if you wanted any help with the sandwiches.”

“Oh, how kind of you Harry! As a matter of fact, I could use a hand. Could you run and get me three jars of jam from the pantry please? Ron only eats raspberry, and Percy prefers blackberry, and Ginny and the twins refuse anything that isn’t strawberry. Thank you dear! Oh, and mind the door, the heat makes it stick.”

Before he knew what was happening, Harry found that his feet were carrying him past the pots and pans that were washing themselves in the sink, and the sponge cake on the table that had a gauze over it to protect it from flies, to the small cream-coloured door at the back of the kitchen. It really was quite small; in fact, it didn’t look much bigger than the door to his cup-no. No, that wasn’t _his_ cupboard anymore, he slept upstairs now, and he hadn’t liked sleeping in there since- _anyway_ , he was at the Burrow now, where he shared a room at the top of the house with Ron, and he didn’t have to go back _there_ again for another year. Yes. Yes, it was fine. He was fine. He was going to go into the pantry and get that jam for Mrs. Weasley- it was the least he could do for her anyway, she’d been _so_ kind to him-and it was all absolutely _fine_.

Resolve stiffened, Harry tried to pull the door open, and found that Mrs. Weasley was right, and that it was stuck. He pulled harder, and harder, and just when he was thinking about giving up for a moment before trying again, the door flew open. He staggered backwards before righting himself. He distantly registered the _whoosh_ of flames as Mr. Weasley Floo’d in from work, already busy taking in the space before him. The pantry was _small._ It was small, and dark, and quiet. The entire space was taken over by shelves that were filled with more jars, boxes, and covered dishes than you could imagine. It was fairly cool inside, Harry noted absently, already scanning the shelves for strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry jam.

He stepped away from the door, which remained open behind him, and walked deeper into the pantry. He spotted the strawberry and blackberry jam almost immediately, exactly at his eye-level, side by side, and in between a jar of marmalade and a porcelain box labelled ‘Eggs: FRAGILE!’. But, try as he might, Harry couldn’t see the jar of raspberry jam _anywhere_. He set the other two jars down on the floor and walked to the very back shelf. _Where is it?_ , he wondered. He got down on his knees and started going through the bottom shelves item by item. When that proved fruitless, he got back up and started searching the shelves at eye-level. Lemon jam, lime extract, grated vanilla, raspberry jam, chocolate icing, ban-Raspberry jam! Harry reached into the very back of the shelf, and just as his hand closed around the cool glass of the jar of Ron’s favourite jam, there was a _creak_ , _whoosh_ , _thud_ , from behind him. Harry spun around quickly, the jar still clutched in his hand.

The pantry door had closed itself. Harry picked up the other two jars from the floor where he’d left them and tried to push the door open, to no avail. _It’s stuck!_ , he thought, and already the pantry seemed even smaller. He took a deep breath or three, and tried again. Nothing. He put down the jars, and put all his weight behind the door as he pushed. Nothing. He tried again, and again, and again. Nope. No. Not happening. The door wasn’t opening, and this pantry really was _tiny_. Panic was starting to sink its claws into his chest, and Harry banged on the door a few times.

“Hello? Is there anyone there? I’m stuck! Help!”, he called, “Mrs. Weasley?! Mr. Weasley?! Help!”

There was no answer. (The pantry seemed no larger than a certain cupboard under the stairs now.) The door wasn’t budging, and there was no one coming to help him. He was on his own. Again.

Harry could already feel the hot tears of frustration and panic start to form, and before he knew it, he was on the floor, back against the wall, with his face buried in his arms, trying desperately not to cry. Crying got you nowhere. His head felt dizzy and woolly, and panic was making it harder and harder to remember what he was supposed to be doing. The world seemed all blurred around the edges, and he honestly wasn’t sure what was going on anymore.He was in here because... _because Dudley thought it’d be funny to bang into me whilst I was holding Aunt Petunia’s good china plates, right? No, that wasn’t it. Think Harry! I...was supposed to be getting something, wasn’t I? Yeah, I was! Was I not fast enough, or did I get the wrong thing? THINK HARRY! Why are you locked in here early?_ Shouts and sharp reprimands echoed around inside the boy’s head.

 _Stupid boy! Ungrateful little monster!,_ and Aunt Petunia’s favourite, usually only to be whipped out when Harry had messed up in a truly spectacular fashion, _You absolute abomination!_

And suddenly, Harry was eight years old again, locked in his cupboard one Wednesday evening, trying to sob silently. His teacher had held him back yesterday, and started asking him questions. Questions about his clothes, and why his homework was never done, and why his lunch was so small (especially compared to Dudley’s), and why Dudley and he didn’t get on. Harry had told her the truth. The cupboard, the chores, the hand-me-downs. Everything she asked about, he told her. She made a funny face when he had finished, like the face Aunt Petunia had made when her favourite programme was cancelled. The next day, Harry and Dudley’s teacher called Aunt Petunia, and they had a very long discussion. By the time they were finished, Harry’s teacher looked very apologetic, and Aunt Petunia was flushed with anger and embarrassment. From that point onwards, Harry’s teacher ignored him, and looked visibly disappointed whenever she saw him. That evening, when Uncle Vernon came in from work, Aunt Petunia told him all about it, and Vernon was livid. The two adults shouted at Harry for over half an hour (he’d been able to see the clock, most of the time) for being ‘an ungrateful little liar’ and ‘an inhuman _thing_ , not worthy of the air you breathe’, and Aunt Petunia had gripped his shoulder so hard that it bruised. Afterwards, Uncle Vernon threw (actually _threw_ ) Harry into his cupboard, locked it, and said nastily, through the door,

“We should have tossed you into a river, you disgusting little cockroach.”

Harry remained in his cupboard until lunchtime the next day. He was let out for a toilet break and a glass of water, and then locked back in again. This continued until Monday morning, when the Dursleys began to treat him normally again. That was when they began to feed him again too.

 _You disgusting little cockroach._ Harry was twelve now, it was his birthday actually, and Uncle Vernon had pinned his arm up against the wall, above his head. Spittle flew into Harry’s face as Vernon raged, venting all of his frustration and anger over not securing the deal with the Masons, and it was all “...your fault, you disgusting little cockroach! If it hadn’t been for you, if you hadn’t been so determined to be such a bloody _freak_ , and ruin everything as usual...”

Dudley had been openly encouraged to give his cousin a few good punches, to ‘make up for lost time’, and Vernon had pushed him around a lot. Even Aunt Petunia had gotten in on it, a few slaps and pinches here and there, and then she’d dug in her nails so hard that they’d drawn blood, right over _that scar._ They’d been fully considering putting him back in the cupboard ‘where he belonged’, but in the end, had decided to just put bars on the window, and extra locks on the door of his bedroom. After being unceremoniously dumped inside (and locked in, but that was a given) Harry had felt more trapped, helpless, and scared than he had in over a year. This was the worst it had been for a long time, though it didn’t help that he’d been at Hogwarts for the last nine months. He’d foolishly _-stupid_ _boy!-_ gotten used to the haven that the school was, and all the luxuries and protection that it offered, and now things felt even worse than they would have if he’d attended Stonewall Comprehensive, like they’d wanted him to.

Awash with terror and grief, and lost in a memory-filled, panic-induced daze, Harry didn’t notice the voices calling his name, or the knocks on the pantry door.


	5. In which discoveries are made, and someone is in a bit of a sticky situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter note still applies. Enjoy lads, and I'll post again Tuesday!

Molly put the finishing touches on the sponge cake with a smile. Today was an absolutely lovely day. Her family were all outside, enjoying the sunshine, and waiting for her, and there was a very nice tea on its way. Arthur was home, and in the garden with the children, and the radio was blasting out Celestina Warbeck. There was nothing that could ruin today. Absolutely nothing. It was at this golden moment that Molly’s youngest three sons trooped into the kitchen, Ron leading the way, and all three of them flushed and sweaty looking.

“Mum? Where’s Harry?”, asked Ron. Molly blinked.

“Harry? Isn’t he with-oh! Yes. Harry. Harry came in; oh it must have been at least half an hour ago now, asking if I wanted any help with the sandwiches. Of course, I said yes, and I asked him to get me the jam from the pantry. When he didn’t come back with it, I presumed that he got side-tracked by the three of you, actually, and that he went back out.”.

Ron cleared his throat.

“That’s just the thing Mum. We haven’t seen him since he went in to you.”

A puzzled (and more than slightly worried) silence filled the room.

“Maybe,” ventured Fred, “He went upstairs for something and got distracted. I’ll go look.”

He got to his feet.

“I’ll come with you!”, said George, jumping up after him.

“Come on Ron. Let’s look for Harry down here. He has to be here somewhere.”, said Molly, bracingly. On the inside, she was a bit worried. Getting distracted and wandering off seemed like the sort of thing her younger sons would do, but Harry didn’t seem like the sort to do that. Her mind couldn’t help but jump to worst-case scenarios; Harry in a corner of the house with a twisted ankle and a concussion, Harry stuck somewhere and unable to get out, Harry lying face-down in a pool of blood. She shook her head to dispel the horrible images, and mentally scolded herself for being so quick to jump to conclusions. It wasn’t a good trait on anyone, as her mother used to say.Upstairs, she could hear the twins calling in unison, “Harry! Where are you?”

She called out too, whilst Ron looked in the sitting room. He came back out, rubbing the back of his neck, and trying to mask his worry.

“Mum, what if he’s still in the pantry?”, he said, suddenly. Molly beamed.

“Good idea Ron! Even if he isn’t, we might be able to get some idea of where he went from there.”.

The pantry was mostly hidden from sight; unless you were actually looking for it, it was very easy to simply not notice it. The door, Molly saw, was shut. She knocked on it.

“Harry? Are you in there?”

She pulled on the handle, as Ron hovered awkwardly behind her. The door was stuck fast. Frowning, she pulled on it harder. The door was still stuck. And then, Molly heard something. She paused, told Ron to shush, and strained her ears. There, _just_ audible over Celestina Warbeck and the racket the twins were making, was a quiet, shaky, intake of breath. It sounded like the sort of thing you would hear from a child who had been crying for a while, or from someone who was trying to hide their tears.

“Harry?”, Molly asked, softly, “Is that you, dear?”

No response, but the quiet, shaky, almost sobs continued. She turned to Ron.

“Help me open this door, I think he might be stuck inside.”

She raised her voice a bit, and directed it at where she thought Harry was, “Harry, dear, we’re going to try to open the door again, alright?”.

Molly held the bottom of the handle, and Ron reached around and over her for the top. Both Weasleys pulled as hard as they could and suddenly there was a loud scraping noise as the door began to open.

The door was now open enough that Molly could see inside the pantry, and what she saw broke her heart. Sitting in the corner by the door, with three jam jars on the floor next to him, was Harry. His head was buried in his arms, but slowly he raised it, and looked at her. Harry’s face was flushed and tear-streaked, his shoulders heaving with barely suppressed sobs. His glasses were steamed up, and slid slowly down his nose, which was slick with tears. Harry’s eyes were bloodshot, and he was still openly crying. Molly’s own eyes filled with tears at the sight of him.

“Oh, _Harry_ ”, she sighed. Harry didn’t respond to his name at all, he just continued to stare at her and cry. Behind her, Ron asked, “Wait, is Harry in there?”, and continued to pull open the door. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the state the other boy was in. “Harry?”, he asked uncertainly, “Mate, what happened?”.

Harry blinked several times, his breathing became louder, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times, before finally saying, lowly, “I’m sorry”. He repeated it a few times, staring up at Ron and Molly all the while.

“Oh, _Harry_ ”, sighed Molly again, before gently pulling the boy up in a hug. Harry stood there, frozen for a moment, before hesitantly hugging her back, still sobbing quietly. Molly looked at Ron over Harry’s head-and _oh,_ he was so _tiny-_ and said in the steadiest voice that she could manage,

“Ron, why don’t you make some tea, and tell your brothers to stop looking?”

Ron nodded mutely, face pale and staring at Harry, before stumbling away on noticeably unsteady legs to the kettle.


	6. In which the truth begins to come out, and everyone marvels at the very (un) convincing lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH! Lads, you have no idea how happy all your kudos, bookmarks, and comments have made me! I just sat here, grinning like a loon when I saw all that had happened whilst I was away. You're the best! It's back to business as usual again, though to be honest, I'm really tempted to just post more than one chapter a day (but then I'd run out of written material faster, and that's a rabbit hole that I'd rather not fall down). Anyways, here's chapter 6! Enjoy it!

Molly gently guided Harry over to the kitchen table, but found herself unwilling to either let go of him, or ask him to let go. In the end, she pulled him into her lap, and inwardly tssked at how light he was. Ron put three mugs of tea and the dented copper teapot on the table, and Molly raised her eyebrow at him.

“I want to stay, Mum, please. He’s my best friend.”, he said unevenly.

Before Molly could say anything, the twins thundered down the stairs.

  
“There’s no sign of him upstairs Mum, what about-what’s going on here?”

  
Molly rubbed Harry’s hair soothingly, the poor boy was still shaking with tears and had soaked her shoulder, and said calmly, “We’re just about to find out”, to the twin who’d spoken, as Ron slid subtly into the seat beside her.  
“Harry,”, she said softly to the boy, “Harry, can you tell us what happened to you? Would you like some tea, perhaps?”

  
Harry unstuck his face from Molly’s shoulder, and looked up at her. His sobs had finally died down, save for the occasional one, and he seemed a bit calmer and more aware of his surroundings than earlier. His cheeks were flushed and damp, and there were marks around his eyes from where his glasses had pressed against his face. His fringe was plastered to his forehead, and his eyelashes were a wet, tangled mess. He nodded, and pulled his mug over to him, carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes. He gripped the cup with both hands, but remained in Molly’s lap. She didn’t say anything; she just rubbed his back and waited for him to speak. Eventually, Harry stuttered out, “I-I’m sorry, r-really, I am-m. I j-just got s-stuck w-was all, a-and I d-don’t r-really like small s-spaces-s. Not s-since -”.

He cut himself off abruptly and took a sip of his tea.  
Molly shifted around until she could see Harry’s face a bit better.

“’Not since’ when, Harry?”, she gently prompted.Ron, George, and Fred all leaned forward, watching Harry intently.  
“Th-there’s a c-cupboard u-under the stairs at the D-Dursleys’. I-I got l-locked i-in once w-when I was y-younger. Th-that’s a-all.”, he said suddenly, before sipping at his tea again.  
“Harry,” started one of the twins, his voice a bit hoarse, “Is this cupboard the same one all your stuff was in, when we came to get you a few days ago?”  
Harry stiffened, and nodded mutely, staring into his mug.  
“Are you sure you only got locked in once?” the other twin continued, presumably knowing where his brother was going with this, “It’s just that, well, there was a little mattress in there, and a-a sign, in the very corner, that said, well it said ‘Harry’s Room’.”  
Harry had gone very still, and Molly’s heart sank like a stone. There was a quiet ‘oh’ from Ron, who had worked out what his older brothers meant. Harry started to drum his fingers nervously on the table.  
“I-I can explain.”, he started, breathing quickening and eyes darting around the room as he did, “Y-you see, the thing i-is, that th-there, there was something w-wrong with my room when I was younger, a-and I had to c-camp in there f-for a bit. And l-like I s-said, I got locked in once, and i-it scared m-me, so I don’t r-really like small s-spaces. That’s a-all.”  
He drank more tea. Ron spoke up then.  
“But, mate, what about the b-bars on your window? A-and your room was locked from the outside. And,”  
Ron was picking up speed now, and didn’t seem likely to stop until he’d said everything he wanted to say, “you never write home, and only Hagrid ever writes to you, and you never talk about home, except for those really quiet comments that you make sometimes, and-and your clothes are all way too big, and ripped up, and some have weird stains on, and when we first met on the Express, I-I saw this bruise on your shoulder, only I didn’t say, ‘cause I didn’t want you to think I was rude, and-and, and you didn’t even know what your parents looked like!”

By now, Ron was breathing hard, and his cheeks were flushed. It was obvious that he’d wanted to say this for a while. Molly was now, if it was possible, even more concerned about Harry than before.  
The boy on Molly’s lap now seemed to be wishing very hard that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, swallowing nervously, before finally getting out a very quiet and feeble, “I can explain...”.  
He drank some tea, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, polished his glasses on his shirt, and drank more tea. Molly was just about to try to gently coax some more information out off him, maybe even ask about the bruise he had on his arm, when Harry abruptly said, “Me and my relatives, we don’t get on very well. It-it’s nothing really, I just-I get treated differently from Dudley, my cousin, that’s all.”  
Molly’s motherly instincts were still screaming at her, they hadn’t shut up since Harry had arrived actually, but now they were telling her to be careful. Harry was finally starting to open up, but if she pushed him too hard he’d stop talking immediately.  
“Harry,” she started hesitantly, “What do you mean, when you say, ‘differently’?”

Harry squirmed slightly, before seeming to remember that he was sitting on someone and stopping. Ron, Fred, and George all leaned forward expectantly, though Molly tried to tell them ‘Don’t make him feel like he’s under pressure’ with her eyes. They seemed to get the message, and tried to be a bit more subtle. The air in the usually cheerful kitchen was thick with tension. Harry didn’t seem to notice any of this. He was staring straight ahead, chewing his lip, with his hands clamped around his mug. For the life of her, Molly couldn’t tell how long they sat like that; waiting for Harry to speak, though looking back on it, it seemed like one of the longest pauses of her life. Eventually, finally, Harry spoke. His voice was a bit wobbly in places, and it was obvious that the boy was both very upset, and very embarrassed.  
“I-I live with my Mum’s sister and her family: Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and Dudley. They’re all I’ve got. I’ve been there since I was a baby. Aunt Petunia said that I was just left on the doorstep the day after my parents died.  
They, well, they don’t like magic. At all. They didn’t tell me I was a wizard, or that magic was real. I think they were hoping that I’d be like them-that I wouldn’t have any magic. I-I wasn’t allowed to ask questions when I was little. S-So, I only asked about my parents the once, afterwards I didn’t really feel like it was worth being shouted at over. They said, they said that my parents died in a car accident, that I was in the back, and I got my scar from that. That’s it. That’s all I knew ‘til I was eleven. Didn’t know their names, or what they did for a living, how they met, nothing, not even what they looked like.”  
Harry finished his tea. Molly wordlessly poured him another. He relaxed slightly on her lap. Molly’s heart felt like it was going to break again.  
Harry took a deep breath and continued.  
“I-I said earlier that I wasn’t treated the same way as Dudley, and that’s true. The Dursley’s love Dudley. In their eyes, he can do no wrong. Me, on the other hand, well. I’m always after doing something. Dudley gets absolutely everything he could ever want, and it’s never enough for him. He just sits around all day, eating rubbish, and doing nothing. Sometimes, his gang call around for him, and he goes out with them. Everyone in the neighbourhood, except for the adults, knows that Dudley and his friends are the biggest bullies going. They pick on just about everyone that they aren’t friends with. It’s mostly punching, kicking, that sort of thing. They’re not really the sort to have clever insults. Dudley’s best friend is called Piers. He holds people’s arms behind their backs, while Dudley punches them. When I was younger, their favourite game to play was ‘Harry Hunting’. As I got older, I was able to out-run them most of the time, but not always.”

The boy rubbed absently at his left side as he spoke. Molly’s eyes were filled with tears, but she managed to blink them back. Up against the counter, the twins stood, staring at the ground, with blank faces. Beside her sat Ron, who was looking at his best friend, his face whiter than snow.  
Harry kept going.

“I was pretty lonely, growing up. At home, Dudley just picked on me, and at school everyone was too scared of Dudley to go near me. If Dudley thought that someone liked me, he’d convince them pretty quickly that they shouldn’t. It was...well, it was hard. Ron,” and here, for the first time, Harry looked at his friend, who held his gaze, “Ron, was my first friend. It was pretty weird actually, having someone who actually wanted to talk to me, but at the same time, it was brilliant.”.  
Harry looked away, eyes focusing on the table again.

“Like I said, Dudley got absolutely everything he could ever want, and he never had to lift a finger. It wasn’t like that for me. I wasn’t allowed to have any toys, so all I had were a few small toy soldiers that I’d found. I never let anyone see them. All of Dudley’s things were brand new, but all of my clothes were his cast-offs. My Aunt got me my glasses when I was seven, but only because my teacher said that I was having trouble seeing the board. They’re not quite right anymore, but I don’t have any others to wear, so I just have to get on with it. Before-before Hogwarts, they were always a bit broken, because Dudley liked to aim for my nose. I always had to fix them myself, because I wasn’t allowed a new pair. Dudley had so many toys that they didn’t all fit in his bedroom. So, he had a second bedroom, for all his broken toys, and the stuff that he didn’t really bother with anymore.  
The-the thing is,” Harry swallowed again, and his right hand let go of the cup and tightened into a fist, “that 4 Privet Drive is a four-bedroom house; a big room for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, a room for Dudley, a room for Dudley’s stuff, and a guest bedroom. Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge, sleeps in there whenever she comes to visit. So, I, well...I didn’t tell the truth earlier, when you asked about the cupboard. Up until I was nearly eleven, I slept in there. All the time. It was my bedroom.”.


	7. In which someone is awkward, and the truth continues to pour out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow! Every time I go to add a chapter and see all the hits/comments/kudos/bookmarks that have appeared since I last checked, I find myself making incoherent little happy noises. You're all so kind! I'm also really glad that you're all actually taking the time to read my work, as I said before, this is my first time putting something out there for a wider audience to see. I've had a far better reception than I could ever have hoped for! I hope you like this chapter, but be warned; updates are very likely to slow down/decrease in quality after this chapter. I, rather foolishly, ran out of pre-written chapters quite quickly, and am only halfway through tomorrow's chapter. On the other hand, Hermione should make an appearance tomorrow, so there's that. I think I've got a basic plot worked out (or at least, enough to get me through another few chapters), but I really,really wouldn't mind if anyone had any ideas for the future. (Bearing in mind, of course, that if you want ships that aren't already listed, I'll only really lay the groundwork for now; the majority of our dramatis personae are still quite young, after all.) Happy reading!

Everyone in the kitchen had been completely silent since Harry had started his tale, but now Ron broke the silence.

“Mate, Harry, that’s _not_ right. What they did, it’s not fair, and-and I’m sorry that it happened to you.”, the last part of Ron’s sentence was quite hard to understand, because he seemed to be very close to crying, but also trying desperately not to do so in front of Harry. It was awkward, and ineloquent, but also the sort of thing that you would expect to hear from one twelve year old boy to another. Molly felt ill inside, and her heart was in pieces. How could someone treat their nephew like that? And how, in Merlin’s name, was Harry so _normal_? Until today, he had never shown any real signs of having had such an upsetting childhood. Sure, there had been things about him that hadn’t really made sense, but Molly would never have known for sure how bad things really were. There was something that Molly had to know now. She had to know if the abuse had been purely emotional and mental, although knowing what she did now, she really doubted that Harry had gotten that bruise in an innocent manner.

“Harry, did your-,”, no she couldn’t call _them_ his family, “apart from Dudley, did the Dursleys ever hit you, or not feed you, or-or make you do things that you didn’t want to do?”.

Molly hadn’t wanted to ask him this, she wanted this to be over as much as he did, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if she didn’t know the answer (she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to sleep tonight at all, but still). Harry shifted uncomfortably and drank more tea. When he spoke again, his voice was even quieter than before.

“They-they didn’t _really_ hit me. In fact, Aunt Petunia avoided all physical contact if she could help it. Uncle Vernon was rough with me, he pushed me around, but he didn’t really hit me. Dudley pushed me and kicked me and punched me in the arm when we were inside, but he kept most of the punching for when his friends were around to help him.”, he rubbed at his side again, “They got angry with me sometimes, though. Usually when I did some accidental magic. ‘Course I didn’t know that it was me at the time, I always tried to explain to them that I didn’t know what had happened, but they still got angry.

They got angry when I made mistakes, too. If I broke something, or hit Dudley back, they’d be angry. Usually, they just shouted at me, and then shut me in my cupboard, and locked me in for a bit. Sometimes they’d make a point of going out somewhere, and they’d always leave me with Mrs. Figg. She’s this old lady that lives nearby. I always had to stay with her whenever the Dursleys went away. She was nice enough, but she had a ridiculous amount of cats, and she always made me look at pictures of them with her. Sometimes, and only sometimes, they, ah, wouldn’t feed me for a bit. I’d be let out of the cupboard for a small drink and a trip to the toilet once or twice a day, and then I’d have to go back. I never really ate with them, anyway, I usually only got to eat left-overs, or a can of soup or something, after they’d eaten.”

Harry drank more tea, and cleared his throat.

“I had to do a lot of housework, though it always felt worse because Dudley never had to do any. Washing up, weeding the garden, cleaning the toilets, cooking the breakfast in the morning, that sort of thing. That all stopped when I got my Hogwarts letter though.”

Ron stood up and checked the pot on the table.

“I’ll make more tea,” he announced. Molly didn’t want to push, she really didn’t, but something was bothering her.

“Harry, if your- if _they_ never ‘really’ hit you, then how did you get that bruise on your arm?”, she asked him, quietly. If the house had been as loud as it usually was, then no one but Harry would’ve heard her. As it was, everyone in the kitchen heard, and everyone in the kitchen tried to surreptitiously focus on Harry. Harry rubbed his left arm with the other hand.

“How-how’d you know about that?”, he asked quietly, finally turning to look her in the eyes. His cheeks were bright red and his eyes were a bit watery, but altogether he seemed a lot calmer than earlier. More tired and embarrassed than anything else. As it was, his eyes widened at the sight of her, trying not to cry all over him.

“Mrs. Weasley, what’s wrong? Please don’t cry. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, just please don’t cry.”

Molly smiled a watery smile.

“It’s not your fault, dear, it could never be your fault, I just- like Ron said earlier, I’m sorry that that happened to you, is all. You didn’t deserve anything that they did. Now,” she said, trying to sound a bit more firm and less teary, as Ron put the tea pot down on the table and slid back into his seat, “we’re nearly finished this conversation, okay? I know that it’s difficult for you dear, but we need to sort it out so that we can try to make things better, alright?”.

Harry nodded. Fred and George finally moved away from the counter and slid into the two seats opposite Molly, Ron, and Harry. They both smiled at him, trying to be cheerful, but obviously a lot more subdued than usual. Molly rubbed the bespectacled boy on the back.

“Whenever you’re ready, dear.”

Harry nodded again, and took a deep breath, before letting it out again, slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet that they all had to strain their ears to hear him.

“It’s only happened twice, but sometimes, they get _really_ angry with me. The first time was when I was eight, when I told my teacher at school what went on at home. She asked Aunt Petunia about it the next day. I don’t know what she said to her, but Aunt Petunia managed to convince her that I was just an attention-seeking liar. That evening, when Uncle Vernon came home, she told him, and they were both furious. They shouted at me and called me names, for ages, and Aunt Petunia gave me bruises on my shoulder. I got a few more when I was locked into my cupboard. I wasn’t allowed to go to school the next day, which was a Thursday, I think, or on Friday, and I wasn’t allowed out of my cupboard until Monday.”

He chewed his lip nervously, and drank more tea, his hands noticeably shaking. No one said anything, though Molly stroked his hair reassuringly, and was gratified when he leant back into the touch slightly. Harry continued his painful narrative;

“Uncle Vernon was always a bit rough with me, that bruise that Ron saw was from when he grabbed my shoulder about a week beforehand. It was the only time any of them actually interacted with me after I got my Hogwarts letter. I think he was trying to make a last ditch attempt at scaring me into not learning magic, but I told him that I was going to Hogwarts, and that was that. Think he was too scared that I’d do something to them to try again. The- the second time, they got that angry was a few days ago, on my birthday actually. They’ve never done anything for it; sometimes they give me things, like an old pair of socks one year, or a coat hanger another.

A-anyway, this year, Uncle Vernon was hosting a fancy dinner party; it just happened to be on my birthday.He was trying to close a big deal for work, so he invited the Masons over. If they had agreed to the deal, Uncle Vernon would’ve made a lot of money. I was supposed to spend the entire night upstairs, pretending that I wasn’t there. To cut a long story short, that didn’t really work out because of Dobby turning up and making the pudding float, and then the Ministry blaming _me_ and sending an owl. Mrs. Mason, it turns out, is absolutely _terrified_ of birds, and she ran away, screaming. Mr. Mason was very angry and left immediately. B-but then they knew that I couldn’t do magic outside of school, and they j-just about hit the roof.

I got the bruise on my arm when Uncle Vernon pinned me up against the wall and shouted at me, and I got a few more off of Dudley. Aunt Petunia slapped me once or twice, but that faded pretty quickly, though I did wind up with a few more marks from when she pinched me, and when I was thrown into my room. That was when they put the bars on the window and all the extra locks on the door. They put a catflap on it too, to push my food through. I was in there for about three days when you lot turned up.”, he directed the last part of his, well, confession for lack of a better word, to the three Weasley boys in the kitchen.


	8. In which letters are sent, and someone else is let in on the secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here's chapter eight, and as I said, Hermione Granger finally enters stage left. As you'll be able to see, the plot is starting to advance, thought that it'll be even more noticeable next chapter. Fair warning; here be letters and minor timeskips (really only about a day, but still). If you're really that curious as to what happened in the kitchen after the last chapter (and how the other Weasleys were told), then fear not, as I hope to eventually write a short one-shot about that scene. Also, we should get Harry's pov again soon, next chapter if the muses are feeling kind. Anyways, all previous chapter notes still stand, so there's really only one thing left to say; Enjoy!  
> (PS: Oh, and THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone is who is currently reading this story, who left a comment, kudo, or created a bookmark! You're all absolutely brilliant!!)

_6_ _th_ _August 1992_

_Hermione,_

_Thanks for your last letter. Listen, do you want to come visit us at the Burrow? Mum said that you could if it was alright with your parents. Harry’s here too, and there’s something he wants to tell you. I’d tell you more, but I can’t really without asking Harry first, and I don’t want to upset him. It’s been a rough few days._

_Anyways, come if you can, and if you can’t, then we’ll see you at school, or even meet up in Diagon Alley for shopping, yeah?_

_See you soon,_

_Ron_

 

 _6_ _th_ _August 1992_

_The Burrow_

_Ottery-St.Catchpole_

_Devon_

_Dear Amelia,_

_I hope you’re well. I’m so sorry to bother you, and to have to tell you something so terrible; but I’m afraid that we desperately need your help. I know, I know, I should go through the official channels, and that it’ll end up reaching you anyway, and believe me I will, but first I’d like to ask you personally, as a colleague and friend._

_You see, we have recently discovered something about one of our son’s friends; a boy that we practically see as family at this point, he’s so quickly managed to endear himself to us. We, or should I say, Molly, have recently discovered that this boy’s home-life is by no means what it should be- what any child’s should be. He’s been treated terribly, Amelia, and by his own flesh and blood, no less._

_I won’t reveal anything further here, but I’d appreciate it if you, as a friend and colleague, were to stop by my office after work tomorrow. Perhaps we could go back to my house for tea? Molly would love to have you around- she’s always saying how little she sees any of the old crowd anymore._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Arthur Weasley_

_7_ _th_ _August 1992_

_Dear Ron (and Harry),_

_I’d love to come visit! Mum and Dad said that it would be perfectly alright, as long as they know where I’m going, and when. I really do hope that you’re both alright, you especially Harry._

_You both know that you can tell me anything, don’t you? And also, Ron, that’s a great idea, meeting up in Diagon Alley for shopping. Perhaps we could go after we get our Hogwarts letters? There’s a few books that I’ve been meaning to pick up anyway._

_See you both soon!_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

 

 _7_ _th_ _August 1992_

_8:50AM_

_Head Office_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Arthur,_

_I really do hope that everything’s alright with everyone at home. I’d love to catch up today. Is four alright for you? Say hello to Molly, if you have the chance to, before I see her. It really has been far too long._

_-Amelia Bones_

******************************************

In Hermione Granger’s opinion, her two best friends were really the best friends anyone could ever ask for (she was aware that she was perhaps a tiny bit biased there). True, they (moreso Ron) drove her mad sometimes with their habit of breaking rules left, right, and centre, their staunch refusal to study unless it was absolutely necessary, and their habit of only really putting in enough effort to get by when it came to homework. She couldn’t really help nagging them over it, as she was aware that neither boy was, by anyone’s standards, stupid. It irritated her, to be honest, that the two of them had the potential to do very well indeed in classes, if they would only put their minds to it, but she put up with it. The boys really had so many other redeeming qualities, and, well, books and cleverness really weren’t _everything._

Ron, for all that he was tactless and argumentative at times, was steadfastly loyal, always ready to help out a friend, no matter how foolish or dangerous it was (one need look no further than the incidents with Norbert, or the Philosopher’s Stone), and often tried his best to cheer everyone up (usually through offers of Wizards Chess and Exploding Snap, or borderline rude jokes about Professor Snape, Malfoy, and Slytherins in general, but it was the thought that counted). True, she’d thought that he was just downright rude and unpleasant at first, but after the incident at Halloween, she’d begun to see all his better qualities, and was proud to call him a friend, even if she wanted nothing more than to strangle him sometimes.

Harry, on the other hand, hadn’t really made a huge impression on her when they’d first met. She’d thought that he was nice enough, a bit quiet when left alone, but also too much of a rule-breaker and too friendly with Ron to ever really be her friend. She’d never been happier to be wrong in her life. Harry was always ready to fight a three-headed dog if he thought that it would help someone out. He was always willing to listen to her (even when she could tell that he was a bit bored of the subject matter), and could easily coax a smile out of someone, either with the charisma he seemed to (unknowingly) exude, or his own brand of witty, often painfully sarcastic humour. He was an excellent friend, and she’d willingly duel Snape for him (she knew that he’d do the same for her, but would probably enjoy it a lot more).

Harry and Ron were similar in many ways (in that they were both Quidditch obsessed boys who would gladly hex Malfoy into next week if they thought that he deserved it), but also quite different (in that Harry could easily navigate the Muggle world, but Ron’s pronounciation of ‘electricity’ was nearly as shaky as his understanding of it).One of their biggest differences, Hermione had noticed, was that Ron would mutter complaints about his parents and numerous siblings on a regular basis, but would do _anything_ for them. Harry, on the other hand, never spoke about his relatives, or his childhood, if he could help it, save for the few, quiet comments that he would say so casually that it was hard to tell how much he’d meant them.

Hermione worried about him sometimes, to be honest. She wasn’t sure why, surely Harry would say something if things weren’t quite right, but she did.

(And then again, it was Harry. In the time that she’d known him, he’d never really seemed to think to ask for help with _anything_ ).

Her mind would catch on little details, and run over them repeatedly, trying to slot them into various different theories until they either made sense, or she was distracted by something else (she was, after all, only twelve).

She’d wonder about Harry’s too large, faded clothing, the state his glasses had been in when they’d first met, and were still in (a cracked lens, and held together in the middle and at the sides with liberal amounts of tape), and the fact that he obviously needed new ones, as he had trouble seeing the board in class and making out details from a distance (not that he’d ever admit it).

She’d wonder about how much smaller he seemed than everyone else at school (he was easily the smallest boy in their year, and was noticeably shorter than most of the girls too). She’d wonder about how he never wrote home, and never seemed to expect anything from home. She’d wonder about the things that he would mutter about his relatives, and the reception he’d gotten from his uncle at the train station in June.

(How on earth could the man be so rude to the Weasleys? And how could he be so displeased to see his nephew for the first time since August?)

She’d wonder, and wonder, and wonder, but never actually voice her theories, too worried that she’d be rebuffed, or worse still, that she’d lose Harry’s friendship. So, against her better judgment, Hermione would keep her mouth shut about all of the strange things about Harry Potter’s home-life.

She was absolutely delighted to get Ron’s letter in August, though surprised to hear that Harry was there, and very worried by what Ron had said (and implied) about him. She’d asked her parents for permission to visit them immediately, and was glad when it was immediately granted (though a tad irritated, as she knew that the only reason why they’d said yes so quickly was because they were relieved that she actually had friends). Hermione Granger had visited the Burrow, which was near Ottery-St. Catchpole in Devon (a bit of a drive, but worth it, especially as her parents’ friend Mark-her godfather-lived only twenty minutes away), for the first time two days after Ron’s letter, and was glad she did.

Hermione had thought that the house, for all that it was mismatched and an architect’s worst nightmare, was charming and welcoming, and was pleased to see the Weasleys again. Mrs Weasley was bright and welcoming and Mr Weasley was immediately fascinated with her parents and liked to ask them mulitiple questions about the Muggle World (they felt the same way about him, and would listen raptly as he explained how Wizarding taxes were worked out). She didn’t see much of Ron’s brother Percy, as he spent most of his time in his room, and Fred and George were always either outside or blowing things up in their bedroom. Hermione thought that Ron’s younger sister, Ginny, was nice, and very lively and energetic once you got to know her, though she did have a huge crush on Harry. All of the Weasleys, however, seemed to be a bit subdued, and there seemed to be a surprising level of protectiveness in their gazes whenever they saw Harry, and Hermione was heartbroken when she found out why.

Ron and Harry had brought her up to Ron’s room, where they both were sleeping, almost immediately after she’d arrived. In that short space of time, she’d realised that something was most definitely off about her best friends; they both seemed a bit quieter than usual, and Ron seemed prepared to fight a dragon if it so much as looked at Harry funny (only when Harry wasn’t looking though). Harry for his part seemed tired and a bit tense, though there was a certain sense of peace about him that she’d never seen before. His glasses had been fixed, and he was wearing clothes that looked more like they belonged to Ron than him.

They had sat her down on Ron’s bed, and then Harry had begun to speak, quietly, seeming to find it hard to meet her eyes, though he did look up occasionally. What he had said had made Hermione want to cry (she did, whilst hugging Harry to her, half frightened that he was about to just disappear), and she had been filled with the urge to shout at the Dursleys (and maybe punch them, but that was an instinct that she’d been trying to curb for years). Harry had hugged her back, and after a moment, Ron joined in. It was awkward,elbows were digging in uncomfortably, and legs were starting to go numb, but no one really wanted to let go. Ever.


	9. In which there is one final revelation, and legal action is about to be taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! If you're reading this then I've either managed to successfully reel you in, or you're just painfully bored. Regardless, you're still here, reading my story, so 50 points to me, really. All previous chapter notes (re: feeling free to ask me to add to/edit the tags, or just give feedback in general) still stand. I hope that you are having/will have/had a good day, wherever you are, and if you're not/won't/didn't, I hope that this'll cheer you up a bit. Enjoy!  
> (Also, to everyone who has read this, left a kudo or comment, or bookmarked this; thank you so very, very, much. If it wasn't for the startlingly good feedback I got from the first few chapters, this fic probably would've continued to languish on my computer, forever unfinished as I worked on other fics (only to cruelly abandon them about five chapters in because my creativity has all dried up). I'm absolutely delighted to get back to this, and am just as curious to see where it goes as you all are.  
> By the way, the way things are planned out at the moment, the next chapter may be one of the last. If you think that I should continue into Harry's second year and beyond (either in this fic or a sequel) drop me a line. Otherwise, I'll tie things up as neatly as possible, and start working on other things.)  
> Again, enjoy!

Contrary to popular belief, there was more than one scar on Harry Potter’s body. There was, obviously, the infamous lightning bolt on his forehead, but then there were the small, silvery scratches along his elbows and knees that most children managed to accumulate. Of course, Harry had mostly gotten those scars whilst evading Dudley and his friends, rather than falling off his bike like other people, but it was the principle of the thing.

Of course, these were not all of Harry’s scars. There was one, final scar that no one but Harry had ever seen (in recent years at least); partly because he didn’t want to have to answer awkward questions about it, and partly because it just wasn’t in a place that other people tended to see. It wasn’t the ugliest scar in the world, he supposed, but he rather hated what it meant. It meant that he hadn’t been fast enough, once.

It hadn’t happened again.

He’d (perhaps rather foolishly) hoped that he’d never have to talk about it, that his bout of truth-telling three days earlier would be enough for a lifetime; that he’d never have to reveal another secret in his entire life. Harry was, well, _embarrassed,_ that other people knew about the Dursleys, that he hadn’t been able to hold himself together and keep it quiet, just like he’d told himself he would four years earlier. He was filled with a mixture of anger, disappointment, fear, worry, embarrassment, relief, and happiness, and he honestly wasn’t sure how to deal with all that. So he just went on as he did before, as well as he could.

The Weasleys, to their credit, didn’t treat him much differently, and the pitying gazes had really only lasted about an hour or so, before everyone realised what they were doing and snapped themselves out of it. Mrs. Weasley was a bit more firm about making sure that he had proper sized portions at dinner, and had dug out some of Ron’s old clothes. They were too small for Ron, but fit Harry relatively well. Ron and the twins seemed to have taken it upon themselves to make sure that he always had a smile on his face, and he had to admit, they were succeeding. It had been hard, telling people the truth, especially after what had happened the last time, but he had managed it, and felt oddly _light_ after all his troubles. He should’ve known that it was all too good to last.

It was Ron and Hermione who saw it first. It had been another perfect day at the Burrow (Hermione was staying over ‘til the twelfth, and was currently sleeping on the floor in Ginny’s room. Neither girl really enjoyed the arrangement, and as such, Hermione was hardly ever in there.), and Harry had finally been persuaded to splash around in the pond with everyone. They had all gotten absolutely soaked, and wound up laying on the grass for a while. Nobody even looked at the still-fading bruises on Harry’s arms, or at least, he hadn’t seen them do it, which was good enough. Eventually Mrs. Weasley had come out and sent everyone off to change their clothes and dry off properly, insisting that lying in the sun was more likely to burn them than dry them. Harry supposed that, for the Weasleys at least, the statement held some level of truth.

And so it was that they had all dutifully trooped inside, and Harry, Ron and Hermione had climbed the numerous flights of stairs to Ron’s room (Hermione had dried off and changed at lightning speed in Ginny’s room). Ron had unconcernedly stripped off his shirt and left it in a crumpled heap on the floor. After a bit of wiggling around behind a towel he’d snitched from the laundry press on the way up, his shorts joined it. Harry had done the same, and was rummaging through his trunk for another t-shirt (Mrs.Weasley had put all of Ron’s old (Harry’s new) clothes into his trunk for him) when he heard Hermione’s sharp intake of breath.

He looked up, pushed his still damp fringe out of his eyes, and then saw what she was staring at. Hermione’s gaze had been caught by the long, curving scar on his left side. It wasn’t very deep, but it was still quite obvious, especially when the light caught it a certain way. 

_Ah. Should’ve changed my shirt first._

He could already feel his cheeks heating up, and tried to casually cover the scar with his arm. By the look on her face, he wasn’t very successful. She looked a bit ill, as she gestured at his side.

“How?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders, looked away, and then muttered, “Got caught by Dudley once, after I’d shown him up at school. He’d gotten a pocketknife for Christmas. I managed to get away before he could do anything worse, and I kicked his knife into a drain. It was the most violent he’d ever been, and he’s never done anything like it since.”

He bit his lip, and roughly pulled on his shirt. When he resurfaced from the cotton, sweet-smelling, hiding place, Hermione was a lot closer than she’d been earlier, and Ron was standing by her side. She chewed her lip, glanced down, then back up at him.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up”, she said softly. He shook his head, and tried to smile reassuringly.

“It’s alright”, he said with a shrug, and it _was_ alright, because he knew that she hadn’t meant to upset him. When she still didn’t look convinced, he surprised everyone in the room by pulling her in for a hug. Harry had never initiated a hug in his _life_ , and wasn’t too sure what to do, but luckily Hermione took over after an awkward moment or two. He looked at Ron meaningfully over their friend’s shoulder (not an easy feat when he had to stand on tiptoe to be seen past her wild hair), and the lanky redhead joined them. It wasn’t as awkward as their last three-way hug, though there still seemed to be too many elbows in the side and shoulders in the face, but they made it work.

And for the first time in nearly eleven years, Harry Potter thought he knew how it felt to have a _real_ family.

 

Amelia rubbed at her face wearily as she looked over the assorted documents on her desk for the last time before she retired to bed. This was probably one of the most important cases that Amelia had ever been involved in, partly because of the impact that it would have on the Wizarding World should it reach the papers, and partly because it was something that her friends had asked her to do.

She hadn’t seen Arthur or Molly Weasley in ages, something that she regretted. Molly was friendly, kind, and a whirlwind of concern for her family and friends.

(She also had a very dry and somewhat dirty sense of humour when intoxicated, and Amelia had fond memories of some _very_ amusing conversations with Molly in the pub.)

Arthur was a bit scatter-brained, save for where it really mattered, unfailingly cheerful, and could rival Molly when it came to looking out for people he cared about.

(Amelia also had fond memories of Arthur with drink down, though he was more inclined to secretly make someone unable to speak in anything but Celestina Warbeck lyrics, than to sing bawdy ballads like Molly.)

As head of the DMLE, Amelia would be sitting on the council during this courtcase. Child abuse cases were relatively uncommon in the Wizarding World (thank Merlin, Helga, and Rowena for that), with only one a year, at most. There were lawyers who were trained to deal with these cases, but no one could actually choose to specialise in this area, at least, not if they were planning on having a regular income. Due to their rarity, Amelia was present for every single one, and often tried her best behind the scenes (she was supposed to be as fair and impartial as possible, but her sense of empathy was far too healthy for that in these cases) to protect and help the child, at all costs.

The first meeting of the Wizengamot for the case of _‘The Ministry of Magic v. Vernon and Petunia Dursley’_ was in the morning, and she was desperate for it to work out in young Harry’s favour. (She was also hoping to get custody awarded to Arthur and Molly, though that part was being kept quiet for now.)

The Dursley’s son, it was decided, couldn’t be tried with his parents, as he had been under the age of twelve when the offences took place. His actions would not go unnoted however, and if his parents were convicted, he would likely end up being sent to live with a suitable relative, or a foster family, and forced to attend rehabilitation.

The session would mostly be the introduction of the trial, the details of the charges, and the introduction of all necessary people. Young Harry had agreed to act as a witness and provide his memories, though his identity would be kept secret as he was still a child. The trial would also be arranged so that he would never have to even see, let alone interact with, the Dursleys, as they would be called in the day after everyone had received all of the information they required. They had been brought into custody by Aurors the earlier that day, and were currently being held in special cells in the Ministry. Thanks to the wonders of magic, despite how long it _really_ took to reach a verdict, the trial would only be four consecutive days long. The use of a time loop would be put on the records, and hopefully young Harry would be in the care of more suitable guardians (read: the Weasleys) before the fifteenth of August.

Amelia nodded to herself, satisfied that she knew everything that she needed to for her official (and unofficial) role in the proceedings, blew out the candle, and head off to bed, idly wondering if she could take a holiday after this trial. She was about due one anyway, and it would be lovely to get to spend some time with her young niece, Susan.


	10. In which there is a trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. If you were reading this on the 13th, then you will be delighted to know that the rest of the chapter is up now, and I offer my sincerest apologies for the cliffhanger.  
> If you are reading this chapter for the first time now, then go you. This is probably the second last chapter of this fic, thank goodness. It's an absolute MONSTER of a chapter. Enjoy it!

_11_ _th_ _August 1992_

_10:00AM_

_Session One: The Ministry of Magic v. Vernon and Petunia Dursley_

At exactly ten o’clock that morning, the entirety of the Wizengamot was assembled in courtroom one, as was the norm when it came to cases like this one. As Chief Warlock, Albus Dumbledore was to begin the session, and try his best to keep the peace. Dumbledore rose from his seat in the small box above the benches where the rest of the Wizengamot sat. The courtroom was circular and made of stone, and was reminiscent of a Roman amphitheater. He smoothed down his official plum robes slightly, and called out in a tone that was very different to his usual joviality, “The Wizengamot is now in session.”

He nodded to the court scribe, Daniel Weatherby, who began to scribble down notes.

“Court trial on the 11th of August, 1992. Ten o’clock. Session one of the Ministry of Magic, on behalf of an under-aged wizard, versus Vernon and Petunia Dursley, residents of Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, under the Decree for the Protection of Magical Children Act, 1792, with the charges of ongoing abuse and neglect of a magical child from 1981 to 1992.”

“Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic, Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Rufus Brutus Scrimgeour, Head Auror, Buddleia Daphne Greengrass-Nott, Senior Partner of Greengrass, Higgs, and Entwhistle law firm, on behalf of the Ministry. The Dursleys have yet to choose legal representation. Witnesses for the Prosecution: Arthur Septimus and Molly Ginevra Weasley, the underaged victim, three under-aged wizards, an under-aged witch, Mediwitch Poppy Rose Pomfrey, and Professor Minerva Isobel McGonagall. Witnesses for the Defence have yet to step forward. Court scribe: Daniel Richard Weatherby. Chief Warlock: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

“Please note, for the record, that the use of time loops has been authorised for this trial, and the final session is to end on the 14th of August at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. We are currently three minutes into the timeloop.”

At Dumbledore’s words, glowing, blue numbers appeared in the air, reading: _00:03:45._ Weatherby dutifully wrote this down, and then paused, waiting.

“Please also note, that the under-aged witnesses will be testifying via their own, willingly submitted and rigorously examined Pensieve memories, and in person, under multiple identity charms.”

Dumbledore gestured towards the assembled Wizengamot, and intoned, “I declare this trial to be in session”, before sitting down again. Mrs. Greengrass-Nott stood then, and made her way to the centre of the floor. She addressed the Wizengamot in a clear and precise voice.

“My fellow witches and wizards, we are here today for the first session of _‘The Ministry of Magic v. Vernon and Petunia Dursley’._ As Chief Warlock Dumbledore stated, I will be representing the Ministry, and through them, the under-aged wizard who was a victim of the terrible crimes the Dursleys stand accused of. In 1981, following the death of the rest of the child’s family during the war, Vernon and Petunia Dursley were awarded custody of a magical infant, of whom they were of some relation on the boy’s mother’s side. The Dursleys were Muggles, who were aware of our world. They brought the child inside that morning, and everything went downhill from there. For the next ten years, the boy was kept ignorant of his heritage, and the existence of magic in general, and was regularly abused and neglected."

She walked over to the grey Pensieve-it was the size of a kitchen sink, and perhaps a tad excessive-and tapped it with her wand. The runes carved onto it lit up, and a cloud, roughly about two Cleansweeps long and thre Cleansweeps high apeared above it. Daniel Weatherby eagerly scribbled this down. Mrs. Greengrass-Nott extracted a vial from the chest next to the Pensieve, checked the label, and then tipped the silvery contents inside. The cloud screen shimmered for a moment, before it showed an image. An ordinary little white door under a staircase. Completely ordinary in every conceivable way, and usually found in the homes of Muggles, Muggleborns, and some Halfbloods. Mrs. Greengrass-Nott turned back to the Wizengamot. She gestured at the picture.

“ _This_ is Exhibit A, the Cupboard under the Stairs, as it appeared to most visitors to the Dursley household.An ordinary little storage cupboard, likely filled with cleaning equipment, perhaps a few toys belonging to the Dursley’s son?”, she stated, her voice like honey. The members of the Wizengamot who knew Buddleia Greengrass-Nott personally squirmed uncomfortably. Nothing good ever came of that tone of voice. Nothing. The witch smiled then, a sharp, sarcastic thing.

“And _this_ is how it appeared to the victim, Witness A, around 1987.”

She tapped the Pensive again, and the memory resumed. A small hand, absolutely tiny really, came into view, stretched up, and opened the door. A hastily stifled gasp rippled through the Wizengamot. Instead of shelves filled with polishes, cloths, and dusters, there was a small mattress crammed into the cupboard. It was covered by a small, threadbare blanket, and a rather sorry-looking pillow. There was what looked like a small pile of rags on the end of the bed (which upon closer inspection turned out to be clothing) and a few battered toy soldiers on one of the wooden shelves. What was even more heart-wrenching was the fact that stuck along the wall by the bed were childish drawings. Colourful blobs that may have been people, animals, trees, and houses surrounded where the child’s head would lie at night. A small sign (handwritten in green on crumpled paper) was stuck beside the pictures. The first word was blurred out (the only sign of editing in these memories), but written underneath (in painfully young and childish handwriting) was the word ‘Room’, making it clear to those watching that the sign was a declaration of whose bedroom this was, something that many children had as either a fancy plaque, or a a handwritten sign on a sheet of parchment, secured by a Sticking Charm. The memory faded then, and the cloud returned.

Mrs Greengrass-Nott tapped the Pensive again, before looking back to the Wizengamot.

" _This,_ ” she said, “is Exhibit A again, this time from the point of view of Witnesses D and E, just over a week ago. It is worth noting that Witness A had been moved into a real bedroom in 1991, and the cupboard hadn’t been disturbed in the last year, save for his _relatives_ ,” there was an audible sneer there, “locking all of his school supplies into it when he returned from school a month earlier.”

She tapped the Pensive again, and the cloud resolved into a clear image, another shot of the cupboard’s exterior, though this time at night. The only light seemed to be a mixture of moonlight and streetlights, streaming in through the glass panel in the nearby front door. A hand, a lot larger than the last one that had been seen opening the door, reached out with a small hairpin. The hairpin was inserted into the lock, and jiggled around for a moment, before there was a soft _click,_ and the hand pulled the door open. The memory seemed to shiver slightly, before the angle was changed by a few feet, and they were looking inside the cupboard again. It seemed smaller this time (though that was likely due to the difference in size between a seven year old and however old the current witness was), and the cobwebs were thicker. The drawings were still there, as was the mattress. The blanket, pillow, and clothing had been removed at some point, as had the toy soldiers. The majority of the cupboard was taken over by a slightly battered brown school trunk, which only served to illustrate how small the space was.

The memory faded, and the Wizengamot sat in stunned silence (the very notion of making a child sleep somewhere other than a suitable bedroom was an alien concept to many of them), and began to worry about what they would see next. Mrs. Greengrass-Nott smiled grimly, and began to set up the next memory. Several middle aged witches and wizards were about to get the shock of their lives.

_Exhibit B_

_Pensive memory: Witness A_

 

 _August_ _1985_

_A woman with blonde hair and a pinched expression loomed over the audience. A child’s voice asked, curiously, “Who were my mummy and daddy, Aunt Petunia?”_

_The woman seemed to flinch momentarily, before masking it with a sneer. She leveled them an unimpressed glare, and reprimanded sharply, “Don’t ask questions!”_

_The memory clouded, and refocused on a new scene;_

_June 1986_

_The same woman- Petunia Dursley- stood before them, towering over her young charge. She stared down at them, for a moment, as if she was looking at something particularly unpleasant, but not unexpected, like a slug in the garden._

“ _As punishment for upsetting Dudders- on his **birthday** no less!- you will be weeding the garden for the rest of today. You will not be allowed to stop until I am satisfied with your efforts. Is that understood?”_

_She sniffed pointedly as she waited for an answer, never actually making eye contact. The small boy spoke again, sounding resigned and dull in a way that no child ever should._

“ _Yes Aunt Petunia.”_

_The boy walked through the obsessively clean house, thoroughly and profoundly Muggle in every possible way. He went through the back door in the sparkling kitchen, and out into a small garden. A good half of it was taken up by flowerbeds, rather overgrown and at a sharp contrast with the otherwise sickeningly perfect house._

_The summer sun beat down on the place, and the viewers could nearly feel the blistering heat themselves. The boy sighed slightly, and knelt down at the edge of a flowerbed. He started carefully digging up and ripping out weeds with his bare hands._

_The memory blurred slightly, and refocused on the same scene. The sun had nearly gone down, and the painfully small hands were caked in dirt. What few clean areas could be seen looked dry, sore, and reddened. Petunia Dursley came to stand next to Witness A, and surveyed his work. She sniffed._

“ _It’ll do, I suppose."_

_The boy staggered to his feet, and limped back through the house. His aunt opened his cupboard door, pointedly not looking at him. The small child stumbled forward to sink down on his bed. There was a quiet click as he was locked in._

_The Pensieve swirled, and a new scene came into focus:_

_February 1989_

_The sky was grey, and the path was covered in a light dusting of frost. Small hands (already red and cracked with the cold) rubbed against each other in a futile attempt to warm up. The world was quiet, save for the quiet crunch of his footsteps. The boy’s breath puffed out in little clouds. This was already the most peaceful and least upsetting memory the Wizengamot had been shown._

_It didn’t last long._

_Louder crunches got closer, and Witness A turned to look. A large boy, well wrapped up against the cold, was determinedly walking up to him. It was hard to pin an age on the boy, but the general consensus was between eight and ten. He also looked furious. He drew level with the other (who was clearly a lot smaller), and shoved him. Hard._

“ _Feel special, do you?”, the boy snarled._

_“Hoping to be a teacher’s pet? We all know how well that’ll turn out, after what my parents did last time. Did you think that being **smart** ”, the word was dripping with as much condescension as a child could possibly muster, “would make up for being a **freak**?”_

_Witness A seemed to flinch slightly._

“ _I’m sorry, alright?”, he said, indignantly. “I wasn’t really paying attention- I didn’t know she’d asked you earlier! Though really,” a hint of spite crept into his voice, “it wasn’t **that** hard.” _

_The larger boy’s face darkened, and he shoved the other again, before a cruel glint appeared in his small, watery eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small, colourful thing. Witness A seemed to recognise it instantly, if the noticeable hitch in his breathing was anything to go by._

“ _D-Dudley, you wouldn’t”, he said, seemingly trying to sound calm and confident, though there was a definite note of fear in his voice. The glint in the newly-identified Dudley’s eyes seemed to get larger. He grinned in a distinctly unsettling way._

“ _What are you going to do,-” ,the sound cut out for a moment, and a haze appeared over his mouth, making it impossible to tell what he had said, though it was likely Witness A’s name, “-tell my parents?”_

_Dudley put on a higher voice, nearly a girlish falsetto. “Oh Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia! Dudley taught me a lesson! Whatever shall I do?”_

_He flicked the item in his hand, and a small, silvery blade popped out. He slowly stepped forward, as Witness A stepped back. Dudley snarled slightly, and lunged forward. Witness A took off running, but didn’t get far. There was the distinct sound of someone skidding on ice, the world blurred for a moment, and there was a loud **thump** , as he fell. The young boy groaned slightly, rolled over, and then nearly stopped breathing when he saw Dudley standing over him. A cruel smile crossed the larger boy’s face, as he sat on his cousin’s legs, effectively pinning him down._

_Panic seemed to be really setting in, as Witness A began to thrash and wriggle, trying desperately to throw him off. Dudley stayed firm, and pushed up his cousin’s threadbare jacket and shirt, exposing bare skin. The memory blurred and when it didn’t clear up, the onlookers realised it was because the boy’s eyes had filled with tears._

“ _P-please Dudley, please don’t. I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I’m really sorry, just please don-” His babbling pleads were cut off by a gasp of pain, and dark spots appeared in the memory. It would appear that Dudley had done something with his knife, though it was hard to tell what from this vantage point. Witness A began to beg again._

“ _Stop, stop, please, please stop, get off, get off, **get off!** ”_

_It was at his final words that something happened. An unseen force knocked Dudley backwards, and the smaller boy sprang to his feet immediately. He kicked the discarded pocket knife into a nearby drain, and sprinted away, his vision still blurred by tears._

_Session Two: The Ministry of Magic v. Vernon and Petunia Dursley_

 

_Exhibit C_

_Pensive memory: Witness B, Witness D, and Witness E_

_3 rd August 1992_

_The memory swirled into being, and focused on what seemed to be the view from a window. A window high above the ground, in a house that kept on moving. There was the quiet sound of an engine coming from somewhere, and the memory’s owner seemed to be staring at a house. It was an ordinary enough Muggle house, though the brass number on the door and the bars on one of the upstairs window gave it away as 4 Privet Drive._

_The window drew level with the barred window, and Witness B leaned closer, trying to make out what lay within. A painfully bare bedroom, occupied by a caged owl, and a small boy. The boy sat up, and made his way over to the window. His features were blurred and indistinct, though viewers got the impression of dark hair. The memory seemed to blur, and jumped from one viewpoint to another, all showing that Witness A was passing his luggage to three indistinct boy-shaped figures (all with multi-coloured hair). The infamous cupboard was glimpsed again, and all seemed to be going well._

_Witness A was about to climb into what was, seemingly, a flying turquoise Ford Anglia, when the blurred owl on the desk let out a noise. He jumped back to get her, just as a man’s voice shouted, “THAT RUDDY OWL!”_

_He passed the cage urgently to one of the other witnesses, and attempted to clamber into the car as a large man burst into his room, shouting._

“ _Petunia! He’s getting away! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”_

_He grabbed Witness A’s ankle and it took the combined might of the trio in the car to wrench him free. The car took off into the night, as Witness A called back, “See you next summer!”_

_He sounded as a child should, for once, light and carefree._

 

_Exhibit D_

_Witness Statements_

_Witness: Professor Minerva McGonagall_

**Cornelius Fudge:** How do you know the victim?

 **Minerva McGonagall:** I taught him Transfiguration last year, and I am also his Head of House.

 **CF:** And in that time, did you ever have any cause for concern regarding the child’s home-life?

 **MM:** I-I noticed that he was...different from many of his peers. He was smaller, more easily startled, and often seemed to try his hardest to fade into the background. He seemed particularly reckless and unaware of possible dangers to himself, but I just put that down to the usual behaviour of a young boy. His clothes too, the ones that he wore on the weekends, seemed a bit...odd, though I presumed that I had simply fallen out of touch with Muggle fashion.

 **Amelia Bones:** Did he treat adults the same way that his peers did?

 **MM:** For the most part, though he seemed a bit unwilling to fully trust them, and often went to a lot of trouble to do something himself, not even thinking to ask for help.

...

 **AB:** Was there anything else unusual about him?

 **MM:** He signed up to stay at Hogwarts over the Christmas holidays without hesitation. He was the first student in the school to do it. Usually, students wait a while, trying to see who else is staying, or if there is any way that they can stay with another family member or a friend whilst their parents are away- that’s usually why students stay, because their parents won’t be there.

...

_Witness: Madam Poppy Pomfrey_

**Cornelius Fudge:** How do you know the victim?

 **Poppy Pomfrey:** I am the matron of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, I saw him in there a few times.

 **Rufus Scrimgeour:** Did you ever see anything that caused you to worry about his home-life?

 **PP:** He was shorter and slighter than the average eleven year old boy, shied away, seemingly unconsciously, if you surprised him. He did what he was told, but often tried to argue against it. He also spent more time in the Hospital Wing than any other First Year, either because he was hurt or a friend was. I-I feel _terrible,_ that I didn’t realise what was going on. It’s my job, isn’t it? It’s...my... _job_.

[Madam Pomfrey had to be escorted away to calm down, whilst the Wizengamot took a break from the session.]

...

_Witness: B_

**Cornelius Fudge:** How do you know the victim?

 **Witness B:** H-he’s my best mate at school. W-we’re in the same dormitory and everything.

 **Amelia Bones:** Did you ever have cause for concern?

 **B:** Well...

...

_Witness: D_

...

 **D:** Yeah, I suppose. Didn’t really see much of him mind, except for Quidditch. He's my brother’s best friend, not mine. Still, there was always something...

...

_Witness: E_

...

 **E:**... a bit odd about him, y’know? He seemed a lot older than eleven sometimes, but then other times he seemed too young for First Year. His clothes were too big, and a bit ripped up. Never spoke about...

...

_Witness: C_

...

 **C:** ...his family, or his childhood, or anything! I always had my suspicions, of course, but I didn’t want to ask, I _really, really,_ wanted to be wrong, and he hid it so well! You wouldn’t think it, but he really is a terribly good actor, until you confront him of course- he’s an awful liar. I just feel so...

...

_Witness: B_

...

 **B:**...guilty for not realising sooner. He’s-he’s my best mate! Another brother to me! I can’t believe...

...

_Witness: D_

...

 **D:**...that no one ever realised! I just wish that...

...

_Witness: E_

...

 **E:**...we’d found out sooner. It’s absolutely disgraceful...

...

_Witness: Molly Weasley_

...

 **MW:** ...how they treated him! Their own flesh and blood! How-how _could_ they? He’s...

...

_Witness: Arthur Weasley_

...

 **AW:**...their family, for Merlin’s sake! And such a pleasant boy too!

...

_Witness: A_

...

 **A** :...It wasn’t the nicest childhood, to say the least. I...

...

 **A:**...slept in the cupboard under the stairs until my Hogwarts letters started to come. They only moved me because they thought that someone was watching the house. They...

...

 **A:**...wouldn’t let me have my letter. Hogwarts must’ve sent hundreds of them, I’m not joking. They were being stuck into the eggs and everything! I...

...

 **A:**...can’t really remember them ever actually using my name unless they had to. Well, Dudley used it, but I think that’s just because he had to say it at school sometimes. They made...

...

 **A:**...me do a lot of cooking, cleaning, and gardening. Dudley never had to lift a finger. I had to wear all his old cast-offs too. Wasn’t allowed my own things. Y’know he...

...

 **A:**...bullied everyone at school and in the neighbourhood who was nice to me, so everyone stopped. They ignored me mostly, though sometimes he managed to rope them into helping him catch me. I...

...

 **A:**...never knew I was a wizard. Still got punished for accidental magic though. You’d swear I’d done it on purpose. I...

...

 **A:**...hadn’t a clue about my parents. Didn’t even know their names. I’d been told that they’d died in a car crash when I was a baby, and that was that. Of course, turns out that they were killed during the war. I...

...

 **A:** ... _really_ don’t like living there. I’ve never been happier than when I was at Hogwarts, or the last while, staying with my friend. It was... _strange_ being around people who actually cared about me, and didn’t hurt me, and made sure I was fed, and _wanted_ to spend time with me.

 

_Session Three: The Ministry of Magic v. Vernon and Petunia Dursley_

It had been a very, very long three sessions. The clock showed that the trial had been running for fourteen hours now, since the last break. The case had been presented, the memories shown, and the witnesses (including the victim himself!) questioned, but finally, one way or another, the trial was drawing to a close. All that was left was for the Dursleys themselves to appear and explain themselves. (Nobody thought that _anything_ that _those_ people had to say would be able to paint them as innocents.)

The doors to the courtroom swung open, and a ripple went through the room as the timeloop was entered. The Wizengamot fell completely silent, and wore their most forbidding expressions as they stared down at the two people who had been escorted in by Aurors. A large man, with very little in the neck department, and a very bushy moustache stared back up at them defiantly. A skinny blonde woman, clad in a _very_ Muggle floral dress, stood next to him. She looked a lot more cowed, though her expression also clearly showed the disgust she felt at being surrounded by _freaks._

Fudge broke the hostile silence, his voice cold, “Vernon and Petunia Dursley, under the Decree for the Protection of Magical Children Act 1792, you stand accused of the continual abuse and neglect of a magical child, from 1981 to 1992. How do you plead?”

For once, Fudge actually seemed like a competent individual, and a worthy choice for Minister for Magic. Vernon Dursley bristled, and his wife drew more into herself, though she still _oozed_ disdain.

“Listen”, he began, already puffed up, and with the audacity to wave his finger at the Minister, “I don’t know what that _boy_ has been telling you, but it’s all lies- all of it!”

“Pet and I,” he gestured at his wife, who nodded once, sharply, in acknowledgement, “took him in all those years ago, when we didn’t have to, mind, and gave him food from our table, space in our home, and our own son’s belongings! If that isn’t the very _definition_ of charity and goodwill, _sir,_ ” the honorific was filled with mockery, “then I don’t know what is!”

Vernon Dursley’s face was flushed and a gob or two of spittle had flown from his mouth as he _ranted,_ for lack of a better word. This image did nothing to endear him to the Wizengamot, who had already decided what the outcome of this trial would be.

Fudge sniffed disdainfully, still surprising everyone who knew him with how competent he seemed, and said acidly, “Indeed. Well, as you have declined any and all legal representation, despite being aware of the fact that you legally cannot defend yourself in this court, I think that this trial should be over soon.”

“Mrs. Dursley!”, he said suddenly, making her jump. “You’ve been rather quiet throughout all of this, is there anything that you would like to add?”

A heavy silence filled the room as Petunia Dursley visibly struggled not to snap at the Minister. Eventually, she managed to grind out, “We did nothing to the boy that anyone else in our situation wouldn’t have done. We looked after him, fed him, clothed him, and sent him to school. Whenever we were forced to discipline him, our punishments were always suitable and _perfectly_ ordinary.”

She closed her mouth with an audible click, and that was all that she had to say on _that_. Dumbledore then stepped in as Chief Warlock, and banged his gavel against his bench once.

“The Wizengamot shall now adjourn until such time that they reach a unanimous decision regarding the outcome of this trial”, he boomed.

He banged his gavel again, and the assembled members of the Wizengamot began to file out to a side room. Silence filled the room as the last one shut the door, Dumbledore pointedly ignoring the Dursleys. (Oh, how sick he felt with guilt! He had had no idea of exactly how terrible they were, and young Harry had paid the price.)

The Dursleys, their Auror escort, and Dumbledore were the sole occupants of the room for no more than three minutes, before the Wizengamot re-entered, led by Augusta Longbottom. There was the scuffing of shoes against stone, and the fluttering of robes as everyone re-took their seats, before Dame Longbottom stood up, and addressed the three interrogators, and Dumbledore.

“We, the assembled Wizengamot of the British Isles,” she intoned, her voice steady and dignified, “find Vernon and Petunia Dursley, residents of number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, guilty of continual child abuse and neglect from 1981 to 1992, under the Decree for the Protection of Magical Children Act of 1792. Ordinarily, we would demand that they receive a life sentence in Azkaban for their crimes, however, given their status, we cannot legally punish them as wizards. Therefore, we insist that they serve life sentences in the most suitable Muggle equivalent.

"We also insist that their son be forced to attend rehabilitation, to be facilitated by his school during term time, until such time that a professional in the field of psychology declares that he truly regrets his actions, and understands why they were wrong. Should such a thing not occur by the time he reaches eighteen, the age of Muggle maturity, we demand that he be interred with his parents, whilst continuing to attend these sessions, and with his release dependent on his reaching the earlier stated criteria. We demand that guardianship of Dudley Dursley not fall to his Aunt Marjorie, but instead to a suitable Muggle foster home. Finally, we demand that guardianship of Witness A fall to a suitable and caring Wizarding family.”

Petunia Dursley’s face went white, and she screeched “YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”, as her husband flushed red and bellowed about “RUDDY FREAKS!”.

The couple were Silenced, bound with ropes, and escorted back down to the Minsitry’s holding cells. Dumbledore stood, and announced, “The Ministry of Magic v. Vernon and Petunia Dursley has been decided, with a ruling of ‘guilty’ by the Wizengamot. This case is over, and you are all free to do as you wish!”

Claps resounded throughout the room, as Dumbledore stopped the clock, and released the room from the timeloop.

Daniel Weatherby scribbled down a few more words, before drying his ink, and rolling up his parchment. He tucked it under his arm, and made his way down to the Court Records section of the DMLE.

The trial was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to point out that I see the Chief Wizard as being forced to remain impartial, and only really being there to keep the peace, and make sure that everyone stays on track.  
> Incidentally, buddleia is a type of flower, and I have decided that Theo Nott and Daphne Greengrass are cousins through marriage in this fic.  
> Oh dear God I'm exhausted, this was a monster of a thing.


	11. In which custody is awarded, and there is a happy ending in sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAHH! LADS! You're all absolutely brilliant, you know that? Without all of ye, reading my work, adding cudos, comments, and bookmarks, this story would never have taken off the way it did. Chances are, I'd have struggled through chapter eight, tried to write nine, and then given up, never to touch this fic again. So, thank you, all of you. Even you, anonymous reader. Even you.  
> I've decided, this'll be a twelve chapter fic. This is the last 'real' chapter, and the next will be an epilogue or something like that. Just enough to wrap things up, but not enough that I can't easily return to this world for a sequel at some point, should I wish. I've already promised ye a one shot (see: the note on chapter eight), and you'll get it, don't worry. I'll probably post it the same day as chapter 12, or the day after. Hopefully the same day.  
> Anyways, enough nattering from me. Enjoy!  
> (PS: Out of curiosity, what did you think of how I linked up the different witness statements last chapter? In case it wasn't clear enough, those were all extracts from each-I really didn't see the point in writing out a full transcript for all ten of them, and decided that a highlights reel would do.  
> PPS: Please excuse my terrible Romanian and Arabic in this chapter. I don't speak either, and Google Translate (dodgy as it is at times) was my only guide. If anyone actually speaks/has a decent understanding of either language, and would like to correct me, please feel free!)

It was the 15th of August, five days after the Hogwarts letters had arrived, and the consequent frantic shopping trip, and the day after the Dursley’s trial had been decided. There was only one final piece of business to take care of, and Amelia Bones had called Arthur into her office to sort it. As she was the only member of the Wizengamot who had known the true identity of ‘Witness A’, she hadn’t been allowed to vote during the trial, or attempt to affect its outcome in any way. The upside of this, of course, was that she was the only one who could have further direct dealings with the child and his new guardians, who had yet to be decided.

Arthur smoothed down his robes nervously, hoping that Amelia was going to tell him that custody of young Harry had been given to a suitable family, and preferrably one that would allow him to visit the Burrow. Everyone at home (himself included) would be heartbroken if Harry could no longer visit them. He rapped lightly on Amelia’s door.

“Come in!”, she called, her voice relaxed and fairly cheerful.

Arthur steeled his nerves one last time, before doing as he was told. Amelia looked up from her papers, and smiled at him warmly.

“Arthur! I wasn’t expecting you for another few minutes. Please, please, sit down! Tea?”

Arthur relaxed quite a bit. As usual, Amelia’s friendly demeanour (reserved only for friends and family, of course, everyone else had to deal with Madam Bones-stern but fair) had a calming effect. He nodded, as a smile easily worked its way onto his face. The Head of the DMLE took off her monocle, and clapped her hands. A silver teaset, two china cups, and a plateful of biscuits appeared. Amelia poured him a cup, and Arthur helped himself to a Jammy Dodger. He’d always been rather partial to them, and the fact that they were so popular amongst Muggles only strengthened his belief that they were Rather WonderfulTM , only to be rivaled by Molly’s Ginger Newts.

“So, Arthur,” said Amelia, after taking a sip of tea, “How is Harry doing?”

Completely without his knowledge, a warm smile, the same one that appeared whenever he spoke of his sons and daughter, lit up Arthur’s face at the mention of the boy.

“Oh he seems to be doing very well Amelia. We really can’t thank you enough! Not even Ron had ever seen him so happy; he’s constantly got a smile on his face, and just seems so at home with us.”

Arthur’s smile faded as he admitted, “I don’t know how I’ll be able to break it to him, that he won’t be living with us. Molly and the boys, and Ginny of course, will all miss him terribly. I will too. I’ve only known him for a week and a half, but already I can’t imagine the Burrow without him. We’ll cope I suppose. We managed it with Bill and Charlie, after all.”

Arthur drowned his sorrows in a long gulp of tea. Amelia’s brown eyes twinkled with a certain something, and against his will, Arthur’s hopes began to raise again.

(That particular eye twinkle had, in the past, preceded a particularly good joke played on a drunken individual, or a particularly lewd duet with Molly.)

“Well”, she began, voice brimming with amusement, “you’ll just have to manage with not being able to imagine the Burrow without him for the next five years, at least.”

Arthur’s eyes widened with disbelief at what she was implying.

“You don’t mean-”

“That you and Molly are now the guardians of six children, again? I’m afraid that I do Arthur. That’s _exactly_ what I mean.”

Arthur’s cheeks were starting to ache from how wide his smile was, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Harry was staying, and that’s all that mattered. Harry was staying.

 

_The Burrow_

_Ottery-St. Catchpole_

_Devon_

_England_

_Green Lodge_

_Rezervatia National de Dragon_

_Carpathian Mts._

_Romania_

_15 th August 1992_

_Dear Charlie,_

_It was lovely to get your last letter, dear! Everyone at home sends their best regards. ‘Everyone at home’, is actually what I wanted to tell you about. Ron told me he wrote to you last year, did he ever mention his friends?_

_..._

_You and Bill are both invited home for a party to celebrate (we have several years worth of birthdays and Christmases to make up for after all!) as soon as you can take a holiday. Sooner rather than later would be nice dear. Perhaps you could try writing to your new little brother? He is terribly nervous about meeting you, after all._

_See you soon!_

_Lots of love,_

_Mum and Dad_

_xxx_

 

_The Burrow_

_Ottery-St. Catchpole_

_Devon_

_England_

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank_
    
    
      
      
        _الزوايا المخفية_
      
    

_Cairo_

_Egypt_

_To be held in trust for: William Weasley, Cursebreaker_

_15 th August 1992_

_Dear Bill,_

_It was so nice to hear from you last month! The contents of this letter may not come as a surprise to you, as I asked Charlie to owl you as well. I remembered what you said about the owls not being able to get past some of the wards over your camp, so I sent this letter straight to the desk at Gringotts. See, I listen!_

_In case you haven’t already read Charlie’s letter, I’ll repeat what I said before. Ron said that he wrote to you last year (you may remember the card he sent from Hogwarts over Christmas- I think it was rather...sparkly. Apparently Fred and George got to it before he sent it. Need I say more?). Did he mention his friends, Harry and Hermione?_

_..._

_We hope to see you soon dear! Harry especially, though he is rather nervous. Perhaps you could write to him, if you have the time. Charlie already agreed to._

_See you soon!_

_Lots of love,_

_Mum and Dad_

_xxx_

 

 

Molly put the finishing touches on the sponge cake with a smile. Today was an absolutely marvellous day. Her family were outside, enjoying the sunshine, and waiting for her, and there was a very nice tea on its way. Arthur was home from work, and in the garden with six of their children, and the radio was playing its biannual Celestina Warbeck hour. There was nothing that could ruin today. Absolutely nothing. It was at this golden moment that the Floo roared into life from behind her. Molly turned to investigate, and as she did, the family clock caught her eye. Eight hands pointed to home; her own, Arthur’s, Bill’s, Percy’s, Fred’s, George’s, Ron’s, Ginny’s, and Harry’s. She blinked, and counted again. Nine! She turned to face the visitor who had stumbled out from the Floo (he never had been particularly good with it, the poor dear) with a wide smile.

“Bill! You’re home!”

She engulfed her eldest child in a tight hug, which he returned without hesitation, and then held him at arm’s length, examining him. She sighed, and smiled fondly.

“You really _do_ need a haircut, dear.”

“Mum!”

“Well, it’s true! I’m surprised that the goblins haven’t made you cut it off yet.”

Bill’s joking retort was cut off by the sound of the front door opening, and a voice calling out, “Mum? Dad?”, just as Charlie’s hand on the clock swung from ‘traveling’ to ‘home’. The young man in question entered the kitchen, saw his mother and older brother, and grinned broadly.

“Should’ve known you’d be here already, Bill. Trying to suck up to Mum and Dad first, make up for lost time, and all that.”

“Charlie!”

“Hello, Mum. Missed you.”

Molly’s eyes felt suspicously watery, but she blinked it back, and opened her arms. Charlie stepped into her embrace without question. The two hugged tenderly for a moment, before she pulled him off gently, and studied him for a moment. She nodded approvingly.

“See, Bill? Short hair is _perfectly_ lovely! A very sensible option too, dear.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

Bill clapped his hands together, and said brightly, “So! Where’s this new little brother of ours?”

“Yeah, Mum. Where is everyone?”, asked Charlie.

Molly smiled, and sent the pair outside, before returning to her cake. There was nothing that could ruin today. Absolutely nothing. Her family was outside in the sunshine, waiting for her, and all was well.


	12. Epilogue: In which we learn what happened to everyone else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOH!!! I finished the final chapter ahead of time! Here you go!

_Vernon and Petunia Dursley:_

Vernon Dursley was sentenced to life imprisonment in Nottingham Combination Prison, a prison reinforced by magic, which held muggles and squibs who had committed crimes in the Wizarding World, or against a member of said world. He was still unable to speak the name of his nephew, and his only contact with the outside world was weekly letters from his wife, and a monthly visit from his son. Vernon did not do well in prison, and his ignorant views combined with his general dislikeable air often gained him the ire of his fellow inmates.

Petunia Dursley was sentenced to life imprisonment in Liverpool Combination Prison, a sister to the project in Nottingham. She exchanged letters with her husband once a week, and saw her son once a month. Nobody much liked her, as she was snobbish, rude, and sharp with everybody. She, too, found herself unable to utter the name of her sister’s son, something that she had very mixed feelings about.

 

_Dudley Dursley:_

Dudley Dursley, much to his dismay, was unceremoniously ripped from his comfortable life in Little Whinging during the summer of 1992. His parents were imprisoned for life-for their treatment of his _cousin._ Dudley was not sent to live with Aunt Marge, but instead wound up with complete strangers, in a home filled with another three children. Dudley did not acclimatise well to being away from his loving parents, and having to compete with another three children for attention, something that he complained about at length to his... _therapist._ He complained about the therapist at length to his friends, who were starting to distance themselves from him. When he eventually noticed this, he complained about it at length to his therapist.

 

_Albus Dumbledore:_

For the rest of his life, Albus Dumbledore was filled with guilt regarding his part in the placement of Harry Potter with his despicable relatives. A week before the Hogwarts year of 1992-1993, Albus paid a visit to the Burrow. And there, in Molly Weasley’s cheerful kitchen, he came closer to breaking down than he had since he was very young indeed. Molly and Arthur had, understandably, been very annoyed on their young ward’s part, though at the sight of how truly sorry he was, they seemed to mellow slightly. Young Harry’s eventual forgiveness (long as he had to wait for it) was more than he could have ever have hoped for.

 

_Harry Potter:_

Harry Potter had never been happier in his entire life, and that was the honest truth. He lived with people who cared about him (dare he say _loved_ him?), seven of them on a regular basis, and nine when Bill and Charlie were home from work. His clothes were still second-hand, still too big, and still worn, but it was different this time. This time, they were small enough that he could actually see them fitting him one day. This time, they had once belonged to one of his favourite people in the world. This time, they were worn from years of playing, and fun.

Instead of a tiny cupboard on his own, or a large, but empty, bedroom, he slept on the top floor, in a room that hadn’t really been meant for two, but managed it anyway. He shared it with Ron, and the two of them were delighted with the arrangement. (Even if it meant that the Chudley Cannons were now relegated to one side of the room, and that side only.) In Harry’s opinion, the future was only getting brighter, and the world was full of possiblities. All was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, this is the end of Correcting Mistakes, for the foreseeable future at least. I'm glad that you all came along with me on this journey, and I'm absolutely delighted at the reception that my first finished and published fanfic received. Thank you all so very much, for everything.  
> (PS: If anyone has any questions about anything I wrote in these 12 chapters, please just give me a shout!)


End file.
